


Promises to Keep

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Characters - OOC to good purpose, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, General, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Subjects - Military, War of the Ring, Writing - Engaging style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2004-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OMC  Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_“It all comes of those newcomers and gangrels that began coming up the Greenway last year, as you may remember; but more came later. Some were just poor bodies running away from trouble; but most were bad men, full o' thievery and mischief.”_ Barliman Butterbur -- ROTK (Homeward Bound)

************************************  
The South Downs -- late July 3018  
************************************

The farmhouse crackled and roared; flames devoured the ancient beams as Tarkil fought his way to the child’s high-pitched screams. Acrid black smoke stung his eyes so he bent down to crawl along the floor, the heated wood scorching his hands and knees.

A rafter crashed to the floor, exploding on impact, showering him in embers and sparks. With a curse, the ranger beat the searing pieces away to continue to search for the child, her screams reduced to hacking sobs. “I’m coming, child. Get down on the floor – the air is clearer there,” he yelled.

He tried to remember the layout of the house but it had been a few months since he had been inside. He wracked his brain to remember how many children there were – just the two girls, he finally remembered, Lilly and Daisy.

He continued to crawl blindly in the direction of the coughing when he ran into something soft. It was a body of a child – no more than 2 years old. _Daisy._ He felt the child’s chest but could sense no movement so sought the pulse in the toddler’s neck to find her still alive. He lifted her in one arm and continued to awkwardly pull himself towards the coughing.

“Lilly? Can you crawl towards me? Stay on the floor but come towards my voice!“ He continued to call. Finally he felt her and grabbed a handful of her nightgown. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

He clutched her in his other arm and rose. Another rafter crashed down, allowing the smoke to billow unimpeded into the night sky. The Ranger took a deep breath of the clearer air then charged over the burning beam towards the door.

As he staggered out into the fresh air, hands reached to take the girls from him. He collapsed onto the grass, coughing, his lungs aching from the black smoke. Neighbours from the surrounding farms had come to help and a line of people passed buckets of water from the wall to toss their meager contents futilely onto the flames.

Tarkil stood once he could breathe again, “Where are the Greenbanks? Mr. and Mrs. Greenbanks -- has anyone seen them?” He faced a series of heads being shaken and blank looks in response.

He sought out Lilly, finally finding both girls being cared for by a neighbour who had wrapped them in blankets. “Lilly, where are your parents? Are they still in the house?”

“No, they weren’t in the house, my lord. The men came and my dad went out to see what they were doing. The fire started right after that.”  
Tarkil shared a look with the woman who now held the trembling girl. He knelt down in front of them both. “What men, child?”

“We could hear them doing something in the barn, so Daddy grabbed his axe and went out to talk to them. I never saw them clearly but they talked funny. Momma said they were from the south. She said there have been a lot of them coming up into our land lately. Right after that, two men came in and took Momma. Daisy and I were in our bed, I don’t think they saw us. I heard Momma screaming so I got out of bed to try to help her, so did Daisy but that’s when the fire started. Where’s Momma?”

Tears streamed down her sooty cheeks. Tarkil wiped some of the tears away with his thumb leaving a smudge across her face, “I don’t know where your Momma is, Lilly, but I am going to try to find your parents. You stay here with Mrs. Goatleaf.” With a glance at the lady, he headed towards the barn where the youngster said the trouble started.

The doors to the barn stood open as did the animal pens – the animals scattered. The barn, eerily lit by the dancing light of the flames, was quiet after the roar of the burning house. Towards the back, several barrels were overturned, spilling their aromatic contents of pipe weed across the floor.

Strange, he thought, this time of year the barn should be crammed with barrels of pipeweed. The Greenbanks had a good harvest this year, and the leaf would have had time to dry. So where are the barrels?

A call went up from the men who had been filling the buckets. He ran to find the group huddled around the well, holding a torch as they stared into the depths. Tarkil leaned over and saw the body of a man snagged on the bucket.

“It’s Reg Greenbanks. He must have fallen in trying to get water to stop the fire,” said one.

The men grabbed the rope and hauled in an attempt to bring up the body of the farmer, but the bucket could not take the weight. It snapped from the rope and both bucket and body splashed back into the water.

 

 

Dawn revealed a smoldering mass, no longer in the shape of a house. The men had long since given up trying to fight the fire and had turned their efforts instead to retrieving their friend’s body. After a struggle with ropes and hooks, they finally managed to lift him out of the well.

Tarkil bent over the remains, observing the deep cut in his neck. “They slit his throat and then threw him into the well,” he quietly said. The exhausted neighbours looked at him in surprise and asked who would have done such a thing to their friend.

The Ranger told them what Lilly had said about the strangers. Angry murmurs went through the crowd, each talking of how they had noticed an influx of southerners.

Tarkil left them to their talk and walked back to the barn now the sun had risen. He stood in the doorway and saw the few barrels of spilled pipeweed and signs of barrels that had stood around them but were there no longer. _He interrupted them while they were stealing his weed._ Tarkil turned to face the smouldering ruins as he continued to think. _They killed him and set his house on fire so no one would know. But where is his wife?_

“I heard Momma screaming,” Lilly said. Tarkil slowly walked around the barn and stopped abruptly. A woman’s nightdress lay on the ground, ripped from its wearer, but no sign of the farmer’s wife could be seen. He picked up the tattered remains as he bent down to see the footprints the murderers left. There were at least four from the differences in size and tread. He followed the trail to the back of the barn. His jaw tightened as he imagined the reason for the screams the child had heard.

 

 

The pain in his hands became unbearable and he looked down to see the burns on them torn open, bleeding and raw from helping pull on the rope to retrieve the farmer's body.

He headed for the rainbarrel that caught the barn’s runoff hoping to plunge his hands in and cool them, but found the barrel had a rough plank placed over it, a heavy rock on top. That’s strange, he thought. Tarkil pushed the rock off the barrel then removed the plank and found himself staring at Mrs. Greenbank's lifeless eyes.

 

 

He leaned back against the barn and wiped his dripping hands on his breeches after removing her body from the barrel. With a glance down at the now covered body of the farmer's wife, he could find no reason other than malice for their treating her body in such a degrading fashion. Mrs. Greenbanks had been a gentle woman who had opened her hearth and her home to him, who offered strangers comfort and succour if they asked.

Yet these strangers had tortured and killed her and her husband, then set fire to the house trapping their daughters to burn alive inside. It sickened him what men could do to innocents. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced it, but each time it was equally hard to stomach. These were not men, he cursed, these were worse than any animal and deserved to be fed to the orcs.

 

 

Tarkil took Mr. Goatleaf aside from his wife who still sat with the two little girls, telling the man about his find. After spending a few more moments settling some details, Tarkil knelt by Lilly who had finally fallen asleep in the safety of the neighbour’s arms. “I’m sorry, little one, there was nothing I could do for them, I got here too late. But I promise you I will find the men that murdered your family and they will pay for this.”

He knew she didn’t hear what he vowed, but he stood and with a nod to Mrs. Goatleaf he headed back to the tree where he’d tethered Nâlo. “Come on, boy, let’s follow those cart tracks.”

 

 

  
~ ~Notes~ ~  
Tarkil's name -- the name is one Tolkien gave to the sixth King of Arnor. It is Quenya/Westron meaning "High Man". Though in the appendices it is spelled Tarcil, in the Peoples of Middle Earth, the Professor spells as I have used it here -- Tarkil. I have chosen this spelling as I figure over time, names would evolve and change.  
Pipeweed Thefts:

"There isn't no pipe-weed now," said Hob; "at least only for the Chief's men. All the stocks seem to have gone. We do hear that waggon-loads of it went away down the old road out of the Southfarthing, over Sarn Ford way. That would be the end o' last year, after you left.” ROTK – Homeward Bound.  
In the Unfinished Tales – The Hunt for the Ring, it is said, “Saruman had long taken an interest in the Shire – because Gandalf did, and he was suspicious of him; and because (again in secret imitation of Gandalf) he had taken to the ‘Halflings’ leaf, and needed supplies, but in pride (having once scoffed at Gandalf’s use of the weed) kept this as secret as he could. Latterly, other motives were added. He liked to extend his power, especially into Gandalf’s province, and he found that the money he could provide for the purchase of ‘leaf’ was giving him power and was corrupting some of the Hobbits, especially the Bracegirdles, who owned many plantations, and so also the Sackville-Baggineses. The Rangers were suspicious, but did not actually refuse entry to the servants of Saruman – for Gandalf was not at liberty to warn them, and when he had gone off to Isengard Saruman was still recognized as an ally.  
Some while ago one of Saruman’s most trusted servants (yet a ruffianly fellow, an outlaw, driven from Dunland,) where many said that he had Orc-blood) had returned from the borders of the Shire, where he had been negotiating for the purchase of leaf and other supplies. Saruman was beginning to store Isengard against war. ” This ‘ruffianly’ fellow was the sallow-faced man that was in Bree when the hobbits went through in September.  
Therefore I’ve taken the liberty of assuming the ‘ruffianly sallow-faced fellow’ could have extended some of his efforts at purloining pipeweed from the Bree area as well as leaf from the Shire.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

“Let me take a look at your other hand now,” Angrim commanded. Tarkil unwrapped the bandage on the left hand.

“I followed the tracks of the cart as far as the Greenway but then they got muddled up with all the other traffic on that path and I couldn’t follow it any further. They turned south is as much as I could tell, but how far they went, I cannot say.” Tarkil pushed his hair back with his free hand as he continued telling the tale to his commander. “I went back to the farm later that day. The littlest girl didn’t survive, but the oldest shall be fine. The neighbours said there was family in Southlinch and they promised they would take her there.”

“This hand is healing well, just keep putting the salve on those burns and keep it clean and dry. The other is not as bad, but take the same care. Burns have a nasty way of getting infected.” Angrim frowned as he rewrapped the bandages. “It is not the first theft of pipe weed in these parts, though I can’t say I’ve heard of any so vicious. There have been several other reports. Farmers in the South Farthing say they've had strangers approach, asking to buy their entire crops at twice the normal price. If you talk to any of the locals, ask them to keep an eye out for these men. I do not know why they are looking to buy up such massive quantities of pipe weed but from what I can gather they are getting desperate and this tale of yours simply confirms it.” The older ranger hitched up his trousers as they walked back to his horse. “In the meantime, your brother is waiting for you at the Pony.”

“Which one? Haldon or Valandur?”

“Valandur. He’s seen a bit of action himself. Take a few days off – either stay at the Pony or head to the Sheltering Pines for a bit of unwinding. Mistress Lathwen just got some new girls.” Angrim winked at his young cousin. “Do you good to sow some oats, son.”

“Yes, sir.” Tarkil looked forward to the opportunity to see his brother after many months without contact. He wondered at the cryptic reference to the ‘bit of action’ his brother had seen but knowing his brother it most likely meant a fight. Hoping to distract his senior from the last suggestion, he asked, “So how’s your new trainee working out?” He gave a small nod of his head towards the gangly youth that accompanied the older Ranger.

“Huznat?” Angrim snorted, “he’s green and weak as a blade of grass. His mother pampered him too much.He can barely sit his horse and that’s the gentlest mare I’ve got. But give me a year with him and he’ll be Ranger material. Though I reckon it will take him a fair bit longer to train him than it took me to train you. He’s got a good eye but his mouth does run on a bit.”

Tarkil grinned in sympathy at the youth. It didn’t surprise him to hear Angrim’s opinions when asked about any of the latest Ranger trainees, though the comment about the youth’s propensity to talk did cause him to chuckle.

~~

Farmers’ wagons moving produce to the markets as well as the newest travelers from the south often blocked his path on the Greenway. He urged Nâlo onto the verge to avoid the slow moving wagons. When they finally reached a clear path north of Southlinch, he gave his horse free rein, allowing him to canter along the grassy path towards Bree.

Angrim had given him a few days off – the opportunity to relax was rare these days – and he intended to make the most of it. He hoped she would still be waiting tables at the Pony. Perhaps this time she would finally talk with him or even allow him to accompany her on a walk about town. Surely one of these trips she would allow his attentions.

~~

The gates of Bree stood open during the day. Tarkil scowled as he saw no sign of the gatekeeper. He slowed his horse and they walked along the cobbled road, pulling up under the archway of the Pony. He tossed some coins to the hostler as he arranged to stable his horse. Tarkil removed the tack and brushed the horse down, then made sure Nâlo had fresh hay and water before he climbed the broad steps to the inn.

Tarkil found Butterbur and arranged for a room. A curly haired hobbit headed towards him with a big grin, offering to carry his bag. “Thanks, Nob, I can carry it myself, but could you arrange for some hot water to be sent to my room? I am in dire need of a bath.”

Nob scampered off with a promise to have a bath set up in the room, especially after the Ranger slipped him a coin, while Tarkil resumed his trek upstairs. The room appeared plain but clean as Butterbur seemed to know what the Rangers endured and made sure they had good rooms. After weeks where he often slept on the ground out in the open, Tarkil found it a welcome change just to have a bed.

He threw his pack on the chair and unbuckled his belt, removing his sword and knife then lay down sighing in contentment. But a knock interrupted his relaxation. He opened the door to find Nob and several lads hauling buckets of hot water. He grabbed his soap and razor as they poured the steaming water into the hip bath that stood in the corner.

Once they left, he stripped down and stepped into the steaming water with a sigh. “Warm water! ‘Tis a luxury indeed.” He sat relaxing for a while, then grabbed the bar of soap and dunked it in the water – quickly pulling his hands from the water and cursing as a lancing pain reminded him of his wounds. He gingerly scoured the dirt that clung to him from the past month. He dunked his head into the water as best he could and rubbed the bar through his dark hair, trying to ignore the throbbing pain of his hands.

He had just shrugged on a shirt when another knock sounded at his door. He pulled on a clean pair of trousers then opened the door expecting to find Nob and the lads wanting to empty the tub. “I’m done now, Nob---“ but found his brother Valandur grinning at him instead.

“I saw you arrive and thought you’d seen me but then you headed up here. I figured you’d want to wash up. You always were the clean one!” Valandur ribbed his younger brother who, though he was a year younger, was several inches taller.

“As opposed to you? I’ve seen you covered in mud and loving it. I swear Mother thought you would prefer to live in the stables rather than take a bath.” Tarkil grinned and grabbed his brother in a hug. “It’s good to see you, Val.”

“Actually she made that suggestion several times.” Val smirked then frowned when he saw the burns on his brother’s hands while Tarkil applied salve and rewrapped them. “What happened to you? Angrim didn’t say there’d been any trouble on the South Downs.”

“He didn’t know about it when he saw you. It was a house fire a few days ago,” Tarkil shrugged. “Some men murdered a farmer and his wife, then set fire to the farmer’s house with the children still inside. I got a bit singed in the process.”

“You probably ran into the burning building like the lunatic you are. Let me look at those.” Valandur frowned as he saw the extent of the damage. “Tarkil, these burns are serious! You shouldn’t be getting them wet – if they get infected you might lose your hands. What were you thinking running into a burning house?”

Tarkil frowned in return. “ There were two little girls in the house, Val. I couldn’t leave them to burn alive. And even then I couldn’t save one, I was too late. Look, I really don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m starving—I missed lunch in my hurry to see you. Let’s go down to the common room and get some food.”

 

They sat in a corner against the wall and ordered a pitcher of beer be brought along with some stew for Tarkil.

“What’s with the long face? Something wrong?” Val inquired.

“No, just hungry,” Tarkil scowled, unable to admit he was disappointed that he had not spied the girl who intrigued him these past months.

He had noticed her about six months before during a short stopover. Her deep throaty laugh first caught his attention as she joked with another customer. When she came to serve him, a hint of her scent wafted across to entice him. She asked what he wanted, then had to ask again as he stared at her. “Just an ale,” he managed to say finally. She gave him a look as if he had already had enough to drink.

She brought him the ale and he asked for some bread as an excuse to get her to come back to his table. She barely looked at him, just gave another quick nod. But in the brief moment she did look at him her eyes held his attention from anything else in the room. Hazel eyes with flecks of gold stared back at him hinting at a smart mind behind them.

He asked her name that night and she replied very primly, “Poppi, my lord,” then left him alone once again.

She served him the next day and he thanked her by name but she barely looked at him.

He had been back several times in the past few months; he would watch the room to find which tables she served then seat himself in her section ensuring her attention. Each visit since he had asked her to walk with him, even to just sit and talk with him. Each time she said no.

“So tell me of your excitement, Valandur. Angrim said you’d seen a bit of action.” Tarkil hoped to distract his brother from his own disappointment at not seeing Poppi.

“Oh, that! It was nothing really. Just a small skirmish by the High Pass.” Valandur tried to wave off his brother’s questions.

“A small skirmish by the High Pass? I know your penchant for understatement. That means you fought a heavy battle. Just how many orcs attacked in your ‘small skirmish’, brother?”

They spent the evening discussing the increasing number of orcs coming down from the Misty Mountains and the strange migration of southerners into the area but despite numerous conjectures neither brother could come up with a good reason for the incursions.

But there was no sign of Poppi so before the night grew too old Tarkil bid his brother good night and headed for the comfort of his bed.

~~

Tarkil arose early the next morning and headed for breakfast. As he went down the hall, a small smile twitched at his lips, then he reversed directions for a few paces to knock on his brother’s door until he heard a moan of complaint uttered inside. He ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time so by the time Valandur caught up, he had already ordered breakfast.

Valandur approached him suspiciously. “Tarkil. You’re up early this morning.”

“I was about to say the same thing, my dear brother. Something disturb you at this early hour? Or is this a new habit? To rise early after staying up late drinking?” He smiled innocently at his brother.

“Hmmph, yes, ‘something’ disturbed me, and if ‘something’ disturbs me tomorrow morning at such an early hour, ‘something’ will find itself doused with a bucket of muck from the stables when ‘something’ least expects it,” Valandur grumped.

Tarkil chuckled. “Have some tea, Val, and there are eggs, bacon, potatoes and toast coming too. That should improve your temper.”

“You may be taller than me now, ‘little’ brother, but I can still best you in a fight. I remember all your weaknesses. I don’t think you’ve ever won a fight against me.”

“No, Val, I never have won against you. Not many men can best you.” Tarkil grinned at his brother’s ill mood. “Too much ale last night, Val? Or did you get turned down by a maid? You know Butterbur doesn’t hire that type of girl, why do you keep trying?” Tarkil’s grin died. So why do I keep trying? It was something to think about later, he decided.

“No, just too much ale. I had to finish that pitcher of ale you left me all alone with.” Valar missed the look on Tarkil’s face. “Now that you mentioned maids, though, I was thinking that perhaps a visit to the Sheltering Pines is in order.”

You’re starting to sound just like Haldon,” Tarkil observed. “I swear if he wasn’t a ranger he’d live there.”

“Come off it, it’s been at least six months for me, and from what I understand it’s been a lot longer for you. It’s not healthy to go so long without some feminine company, Tarkil. Sours the blood.”

“Now that definitely sounds like something Haldon would say! How is he, by the way? Have you seen him lately?”

Breakfast arrived and they sat talking of their older brother and his debaucherous ways. “No! Another girl? How many broken engagements does that make?" Tarkil shook his head in bemusement.

~~

The two brothers spent the morning wandering the town, picking up various items in the stores that they needed to replenish their supplies. Valandur found a game going on in the stables that he decided to wager on, leaving Tarkil to head back to the common room for lunch.

He stood in the doorway and saw her tying on her apron. A bright smile appeared on his face as he headed to an empty table in her section. “Good afternoon, Poppi. Could I get a pot of tea, please?”

She nodded and headed to the kitchen with barely a glance his way. When she came back, she placed the teapot, cup and saucer in front of him with a polite word, then moved to turn away once more.

“Poppi? Would you ---“ He hesitated as she looked down at him. He found himself tongue-tied and awkward. “Would you go for a walk with me? Or perhaps sit and have some tea with me before you begin work tomorrow morning?”

"No, my lord, I cannot do such a thing," she sharply rebuked him, "and I'll thank you to not ask again."

Valandur came up and slid into a seat across from Tarkil as she turned away. “I’ll just have a cup of tea and some soup, if you’d be a dear.” Tarkil watched his brother’s eyes appreciatively sweep over Poppi’s form. He found himself suddenly angry at his brother and turned his attentions to his tea, wishing he had ordered an ale. It is easier to glower at someone over a tankard rather than a teacup, he thought. He cursed the bandages on his hand when the cup nearly dropped from his grip.

“Brother, from the looks of it, you definitely need some feminine company,” Valandur pronounced. “You should ask out that lovely little serving girl when she comes back with my tea. She looks like your type. Who knows, she might even say yes to you. Though I don’t hold out much hope, what would she want with you?” Valandur smirked, not knowing how closely he hit his mark.

Tarkil glowered at his brother. “And just what is my type, Val? I surely know yours -- it’s the same as Hal’s. Big breasts, and quick to bed.” Tarkil shook his head as an image of Poppi flashed through his mind – those hazel eyes looked up at him as she leaned against him, her fingers running through his hair as he bent slightly to kiss her …

Valandur raised an eyebrow and Tarkil quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression

“You know what, Val, you may just be right. Maybe I do need a trip to the Sheltering Pines.”

“That’s my boy! I’ll go prepare the horses and we can be there by dinner tonight!” Valandar stood with a bound, forgetting his order as he headed to the stables to prepare their horses for the ride to the brothel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

They were almost to the Sheltering Pines when a half dozen Rangers on horseback thundered towards them. One separated himself from the rest to address them.

“Gentlemen!” Halbarad greeted them. “What brings you out this way? Valandur, I know you’re off on a few days rest, but Tarkil, aren’t you supposed to be patrolling the South Downs?“

“Angrim gave me a few days off.” He held up his bandaged hands and shrugged. ”We were just headed… for some…” Laughter rippled through the others as they overheard the exchange.

Halbarad raised an eyebrow. “I am perfectly aware of where this path leads. Spare me the details. Unfortunately I must divert you from your planned entertainment. You will ride with us.”

Exchanging a rueful look, the two brothers changed their direction and joined the group.

After a few miles, Halbarad manoeuvred his horse to ride beside Tarkil. “How badly are your hands injured?”

Tarkil unwrapped the bandages to show the extent of the burns, and briefly explained how he’d received them.

“But the injuries affect your ability to hold a sword, don’t they.” Halbarad stated.“We’ve received information that makes us need to strengthen Sarn Ford and the areas surrounding the Shire. You can save me some time and run my orders to the various posts in my stead.”

He handed a scroll to Tarkil. “You read Sindarin, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good. Read it now so you know what the orders are and who is giving them.”

Tarkil shifted the reins in his hands and carefully unrolled the parchment. He looked up in shock. “The Nine Riders? Coming north? How reliable is this information, sir?”

“It’s written in the Captain’s own hand, son, so I’d say it’s reliable, wouldn’t you?” the commander tersely replied. “Keep this close and allow no one else to see it, except the commanders and only if they give you argument. They will have to adjust their defenses. Do not accept any arguments from them, Tarkil. They’ll argue that it will spread us too thin, and they will be right. But it must be done. We need the men.”

“Yes, sir. The orders will be followed.” Tarkil wrapped the scroll in a cloth and packed it carefully in his bag.

Halbarad called to Valandur, “You’ve been stationed at the High Pass, right? Your orders have just been changed. You’re going to be stationed at Sarn Ford now. You can head south with these men.”

Tarkil thought Valandur looked annoyed at the change and knew his brother wanted to argue for his return to the High Pass where he felt there was more chance of fighting Orcs, but saw him swallow his argument. “Yes, sir. Sarn Ford it is.”

Halbarad pulled up on the reins to face Tarkil who slowed Nâlo to match.

“Tarkil, if any of the commanders give you any trouble, remember whose orders you’re acting on. You speak for the Captain on this.

“Yes, sir, but...wouldn’t Valandur be a better choice for this assignment?” Tarkil asked. “He _is_ more experienced than me.”

“Only by a year if I remember correctly. But I think you’re the one for this assignment.” He sensed Tarkil’s self-doubt. “You report to Angrim, don’t you? Who do you think Angrim reports to, Tarkil? Do you think I don’t know of the work you’ve been doing? You’re ready. Just don’t let some of the older commanders try to walk all over you. Remember, you’re carrying out the Captain’s orders. If they don’t follow these orders, you are authorized to remove them from their command. It will then be up to you to choose a new commander.” Halbarad did not miss the shock on the younger Ranger’s face at being faced with such responsibility. “Can you handle that?”

Tarkil nodded.

“You’ll do fine. Start with the post by the Last Bridge. Then work around from there to the northern ones. I’ll handle advising the commanders east and south of Bree so you don’t need to worry about those. And I don’t want you riding through these parts alone.” Halbarad scanned the rest of the riders then called to one, “Gethron!”

An older Ranger reined his horse to ride beside them. Their commander introduced them, “Tarkil son of Beleg, this is Gethron son of Gundor. Gethron, Tarkil will be taking my orders to the rest of the posts. You will accompany him.”

Gethron nodded as he gave a quick glance at the younger Ranger, “Yes, sir.”

With that, Halbarad spurred on his horse and called to the rest, “Come on, you lot, I want to make Bree by nightfall.”

With a wry grin to Tarkil, Valandur called, “No rest for the wicked, little brother.” He kicked his horse to catch up with Halbarad who already had his horse in a canter far down the path.

“So much for a little relaxation.” Tarkil sighed as he kicked Nâlo’s sides, urging him into a run as well, Gethron beside him. Only they headed in the opposite direction.

~~

”I can’t spare more men! We’re spread too thin as it is. You’ll have to get them from the other posts.”

“As I’ve said, Halbarad acknowledges this shall strain your resources. Yet still your orders are to provide men. These orders are directly from the Captain. This scroll is written in the Captain’s hand and bears his seal. Now will you or will you not comply?” Tarkil stood straight as he squared off with the commander. While he had faced complaints before, the other commanders had grudgingly dispatched the men requested.

“I cannot do it, son. The incursions are growing too many and the villages around here will be left unguarded if I send even two of my men.” The commander rose to stare at Tarkil.

“I am not your ‘son.’ I am a Ranger, as are you. And you are being given orders to send men to help fortify the border. Will you obey them?” When he did not receive a response he curtly ordered, “Come with me.”

Tarkil picked up the scroll and strode from the commander’s quarters, heading to where several other Rangers sat around a fire.

“Borgil son of Ragnor. You have been ordered to send men to fortify the ranks at the borders. You have seen these orders written in the Captain’s own hand. You stand here in front of witnesses -- do you agree all I've said is true?" He waited till Borgil nodded his assent. "Will you obey his command?”

“And I told you that I cannot spare any men. Each man here will agree with me that it would leave the villages around here unprotected. I cannot obey these orders.” Borgil stood stiffly in front of his men.

“You are relieved of your command.” Tarkil ignored the gasps behind him. “Pack your gear, for you shall be one who will strengthen the borders to the south.”

“You can’t relieve me, son. You don’t have the authority. Only Halbarad or the Captain can do that,” Borgil snarled.

“Halbarad gave him just such authority – to relieve any who disobey the orders. And you’ve just been relieved of your command and received new instructions. I suggest you start packing.” Gethron stood behind Tarkil, a hand on his sword.

Borgil glared for a moment, turned on his heel and stalked back into the tent followed quickly by another of the men.

Tarkil breathed out quietly to release the tension that had built during the exchange. He glanced back at Gethron and gave him a nod of thanks.

He faced the remaining Rangers. “Who is the next most senior here?”

As one, the men glanced at a Ranger who sat in their midst. He slowly rose, “I am Vardamir, son of Duilin.”

Tarkil led Vardamir away from the others to discuss the threats to the area, and the Rangers who patrolled it who might be most capable to lead them. When they returned from their walk, Borgil sat on his horse, packed for the trip south. The Ranger who had followed him into the tent also mounted his horse, apparently volunteering to accompany his former commander. “I shall speak with Halbarad about this, lad. I think the decision you made here was a bad one.” He kicked his horse and they left the camp in a cloud of dust.

“I shall want to meet with the others to determine how the post will have to be managed and who is best suited for the command.” Tarkil informed Gethron and Vardamir. He headed into the former commander’s tent, Gethron followed close behind.

Tarkil closed his eyes briefly as he mentally reviewed the conversation with the commander. “Do you think it was a bad decision, Gethron?”

“No, sir, you were following the Captain’s orders. Borgil wasn’t. You handled yourself well back there, if you don’t mind me saying so. You don’t need to worry about what you had to do just now.” Gethron pulled out a flask and found a battered mug, pouring some brandy into it. He handed it to Tarkil who gulped it down. He gasped as it burned its way down.

“How come you’re not a commander, Gethron? You certainly have the experience,” Tarkil finally asked his companion.

Gethron shrugged. “You know the old saw: some men are born to lead, others to follow. I don’t want the burdens of command. I prefer to follow. You, though… You’ve got the strength of character -- the presence a commander needs. You just need some more experience. And perhaps a shot of self-confidence.”

Tarkil snorted. “You only met me a few weeks ago, Gethron. How can you tell?”

Gethron shook his head with a wry grin. “I just can, sir.”

Tarkil looked at the older man, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why Halbarad selected you to accompany me? Was this a test? Were you going to step in if I hadn’t relieved Borgil?”

Gethron snorted in turn. “Sir, Halbarad and I have served together for many years. I don’t try to figure out his motives. That’s probably why I’ve never made commander. And I didn’t have to step in, did I?”

Tarkil spent the rest of the night with the remaining Rangers who were not out on patrol. He did not have an opportunity to retire until late in the night. He removed his sword, but left it close to hand, then fell fully clothed onto the cot, exhausted.

 

 

“Sir, time to wake up.” Gethron shook him awake.

Tarkil groaned as he cracked open an eye. “I just got to sleep, Gethron.”

He heard a chuckle as his companion handed him his sword. “The sun is rising, it’s time to get moving. You’ve a decision about appointing the commander still to make. We need to be on our way to the North Downs.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to be a commander, Gethron? You’d make a good one. You’re quite a task master, you know.” Tarkil stood and attempted to attach his sword, quietly cursing as his right hand refused to close properly around the clasp.

"Still giving you some trouble is it, sir? I thought it was well healed by now." Gethron took the younger Ranger's hand and looked at it. "Hmm, I see, it's scarring. You might have to get someone look at it -- maybe even the elves in Rivendell."

“Yes, I suppose you're right. And drop this ‘sir’ business, Gethron." Tarkil grumbled. "For Eru’s sake, you’re old enough to be my father.”

“Actually, I’m quite a few years older than he was.” He saw Tarkil’s quick glance. “Yes, sir, I knew Beleg though we never served together. I was sorry to hear what happened to him.”

Tarkil nodded his thanks and set out to find some breakfast. He spent the rest of the morning sorting through the assignments and the patrols, making his decision to appoint the unit’s new commander until Halbarad could return to make a permanent assignment.

 

 

Midafternoon had passed before he and Gethron finally mounted their horses to head away from the post. They rode along a wild path until nearly nightfall where they found a place to camp. Tarkil took the first watch. He woke Gethron midway through the night to switch places. They followed the pattern for several days.

Too soon Gethron was shaking him awake once more. Tarkil went to speak but Gethron clamped a hand over his mouth and he noticed Gethron had his sword drawn.

He nodded his understanding so Gethron removed his hand and pointed in a direction behind him. Using only hand gestures, Gethron managed to tell Tarkil that there was something approaching from the east and, from what he could gather, there was more than one.

Tarkil drew Berior from its sheath as the movement continued through the underbrush. He flexed his hand around the hilt in an effort to ease the pain caused by the pressure of his grip. Tarkil turned as he heard a rustle behind him. He realized they were being approached from both sides but by how many he could not tell.

Before he could draw this to Gethron’s attention, several dark figures plunged through the brush, blades raised to strike. Tarkil and Gethron stood back-to-back as they raised their own swords in defence.

The small glade rang with the sound of steel on steel. Tarkil parried a stroke, quickly turning his blade back upon his foe. He drove Berior through the chest of the Orc and withdrew it to block the force of another Orc’s blade. This Orc was stronger, larger than the last. Heavy blows rained upon him as he shifted his sword to block the punishing attack.

The wicked Orc blade found its way through his defences, slashing him across the chest.

High, then low, the blades swung. The orc blade got through again, this time to knick his thigh. He moved aside as it quickly returned. An opening appeared. He took it, stabbing his blade deep into the gut of his opponent.

His sword still embedded in his assailant, he felt himself grabbed, his legs swept from under him. He fell back, smashing upon the ground. Pain exploded in his head. Sheer reflex made him grab his short knife. He hacked at the claws that closed around his throat. The face of the creature that loomed above him disappeared as its head suddenly separated from its body.

 

 

“Sorry about that.” Gethron grabbed the Orc’s body and rolled it off of Tarkil. “I had my hands full myself for a bit there. I think that’s all of them, but we shouldn’t stick around here long, just in case. Probably some scouts, which means there are more coming.”

Gethron’s voice faded. Tarkil struggled to make out what he said.

“Tarkil?” Gethron looked closer at the younger Ranger and saw dark, unfocussed eyes look back at him. He grabbed a stick from the brush and wrapped a small cloth around it and lit it in the embers of the dying fire. Bringing it closer to Tarkil, he noticed red blood mingling with black on the ground beneath him.

“You just hang on now, Tarkil, while I check you out.” Gethron probed the back of Tarkil’s head. “You’ve got a nasty cut and quite a goose egg back here from the feel of it. There’s a rock right by your head. You must have hit it when that Orc threw you down.”

“I’m fine….” Tarkil mumbled. He was so tired; he couldn’t understand what Gethron was saying. His head pounded and his eyes ached from the flare of the makeshift torch. “Jus’ le’ me sleep…”

“Oh no, you don’t! No sleep for you, lad.”

Tarkil felt hands pulling at his vest and made to push them away but found he did not have the coordination. Every time he tried to close his eyes, Gethron would wake him. The sky was growing brighter when he suddenly retched. Gethron rolled him over and held him as his stomach emptied. He lay back limply, the pain in his head excruciating.

“Come on, lad. Stay awake.” Gethron lifted Tarkil up and put a water skin to his lips. “Have some water. You’re going to need something in your stomach if you have to do that again.”

Tarkil choked as some of the water trickled down the back of his throat. “Don'...no...makes me...” He retched again. His head exploded in pain once more at the effort as his world went black.

 

 

*****Notes*****

In FOTR – The Council of Elrond – Gandalf tells that Radagast met him near Bree and told him “The Nine are abroad again. They have crossed the River secretly and are moving westward. They have taken the guise of riders in black.” Although there is no canon saying that information was ever received by Aragorn or the Rangers, I have chosen to have the information passed to Aragorn.

Berior (the name of Tarkil’s sword) is Sindarin for “Protector”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

Tarkil felt a wet cloth upon his forehead; his head still throbbed and his whole body ached. He tried opening his eyes but had trouble getting them to obey his brain’s command then finally focussed them to find himself in a small room.

“Ah, lad, you had me worried there, you did.” Gethron sat on a stool beside him. “You’ve been out about three days now.”

“Where..?” Tarkil croaked, his throat parched.

“Where are we? We’re at the post by the North Downs. I brought you here after the fight. Do you remember the attack?”

Tarkil started to nod his head then stopped as the throbbing in his head changed to pounding. “Yes. Orcs.”

Gethron breathed a sigh in relief, “Yes, that’s a good sign, Tarkil. I’m glad to see you remembered. You hit your head on a rock, as well as taking a couple good slices from an orc blade.”

Gethron slipped an arm beneath Tarkil’s shoulders and lifted him as he brought a waterskin to his lips once more. ”Take a drink, son.” After watching Tarkil take a few sips, he settled him back and resumed, “I couldn’t get you to stay awake so I loaded you on my horse and brought you here. Lucky for you they had our best healer visiting.”

Tarkil became aware of another ranger standing behind Gethron. “Captain!”

“I was just passing through.” Aragorn came to stand beside him. “It will be a few days yet before you should be getting up. It wasn’t just your head wound that had us worried. The orc blades caused quite an infection so you’ve been fighting a fever as well.”

“Sorry, Captain,” Tarkil mumbled. Within a few minutes, he fell back asleep.

“Is it all right to let him sleep, sir?” Gethron worried as he watched Tarkil sleep.

“Yes, it is a healing rest now. When he awakens make sure he drinks an ample amount and try to get him to take some food, though it may yet be a few days before he’s able to tolerate much. But the worst is over." Gethron followed Aragorn as he walked from the small cabin. “I cannot delay my departure any longer, I am needed in Bree. Change his dressings as I showed you, and if he complains of pain or if the swelling starts up again, try using a linseed poultice on those wounds.”

“Thank you, Captain. He’s a good man and a first-rate Ranger. He put up quite a fight back there.”

Aragorn put a hand on Gethron’s shoulder, “He’ll be fine. It’s just going to take him some time to recover. I’ll leave those orders in Bree for when you arrive. And remember don’t let him push himself too hard.” He walked away to talk to the commander of the post leaving Gethron to watch over Tarkil.

~~

“How’s he doing, Gethron? I saw him out walking earlier; he’s pushing himself pretty hard from the looks of it,” Herudil, the post commander, asked.

“Yes, sir, he is. He’s pretty stubborn.” Gethron admitted. “Between the knock on his head and the fever from the infection, his strength is drained. I think it pains him to take a deep breath but he tries not to show it.”

“How long until he’s in fighting condition?” the commander saw Gethron look askance. “Every post in the north is short on men, Gethron. You’ve accompanied him on his rounds and know how our numbers have been cut. We could use his sword. And yours. I notice you got him out of there without a scratch on you. I remember when we trained together, old friend, and your talents could be used here as well.”

“It’s going to take him a bit to get his strength back, not to mention healing the wounds.” Gethron spoke slowly as he considered Tarkil’s condition. “I’m no healer, but I’d reckon it’ll take him a few weeks more before he can hold a sword again and swing it with any strength. And you’d have to ask Halbarad about me, he assigned me to accompany the lad here.”

“Pity. We could surely use a good sword. The orcs that attacked you weren’t the only orcs around. They’ve been numerous. And they’re bolder, too. They’re starting to encroach to the south. Quite a few of the farmers have reported having cattle and sheep stolen during the night. I’ve got one patrol in the south-east who say they haven’t had any sight of a farmer who regularly brings them supplies. I’ve had to send them out to see if that farm has been attacked. We could use the extra support.”

“I don’t doubt it, Herudil, sir. But I doubt he could be spared from his own patrol on the South Downs. He reports to Angrim and I doubt he’d give him up any easier than you wanted to give up any of your men.” Gethron reminded the commander.

“Angrim, eh?” Herudil sighed, “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting Tarkil assigned up here. Angrim is even more stubborn than your sick charge there.”

“It must be something in the blood. Angrim is his father’s cousin apparently.” Gethron disclosed.

Herudil grunted, “Then I’ll have no chance at all. Pity. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s a good man. And from the way you speak, he could replace _me_ in a few years.”

Gethron grinned, “He held his ground against Borgil last week. I’ve seen other men cowed by that self-righteous blowhard. But Tarkil held firm. He’ll be a good commander. But he needs some experience still. I think you’re safe for a while, sir.”

The commander chuckled, “Ah, well, I have tomorrow’s patrols to plan.” He left Gethron to his dinner.

~~

“Are you sure you’re up to the trip, Tarkil? You’ve only been up and about for a few days now,” the post’s commander queried. “You’re welcome to stay here.”

“I’m certain, sir. Besides you told me the Captain said I should head to Bree when I was well enough. And I am well enough now.” Tarkil assured him.

The commander sighed, “May the Valar protect you then. Gethron -- you make sure he doesn’t overdo it on the ride down.”

“Yes, sir. I will,” Gethron nodded.

The two rangers left the small post and headed down the Greenway.

“Begging your pardon, Tarkil, but I am not as convinced as the commander about your fitness for this journey. I saw how you got up on your horse -- you’re still in pain. It wouldn’t have hurt to stay a few days longer. They wouldn’t have thought any less of you for it,” Gethron worried.

“I had been abed for too long. Besides I cannot abide sitting around having nothing to do; I cannot fletch any more arrows or sharpen my blades any sharper. I’d rather endure a bit of discomfort on Nâlo here knowing that I’m heading back to Bree the way the Captain wanted.” Tarkil grouched.

“You say so, sir,” Gethron relented. “But we’re only riding two hours at a stretch then we stop so I can check your bandages. I don’t want to find you’ve pulled those stitches out.“

“All right! I will not be treated like an invalid!” Tarkil lashed out then immediately regretted his tone and sighed. “I’m sorry, Gethron. We shall stop regularly. I promise.”

“About time,” Tarkil muttered as they finally reached the West Gate of Bree. “Three and a half days when it should have taken us no more than two.” The two rangers shared a look as they passed a group of men working to repair the heavily damaged gate.

“Wonder what happened here? That was a pretty strong gate,” Gethron observed then responded in exasperation, “And as for ‘about time,” we had to take it slow! You were just too stubborn to admit that you should have stayed longer at the post to recover. I’m glad I stopped us that first day when I did. You cannot deny it -- you couldn’t have gone on much further that day. The ‘slow’ pace we set was no more than you could handle.”

Tarkil frowned but could not deny his companion’s assessment.

Bob hurried to take the reins of their horses, leading them into empty stables.

“Business looks bad for this time of year,” Tarkil noted then exhaled sharply as he slid off Nâlo. .

“Oh, the inn is busy enough, sir, though you should still be able to get rooms,” Bob assured them.

“You all right, sir? You went a bit white there.” Gethron worried.

“I’m fine, Gethron. Perhaps I can impose upon you to look after my horse while I go get us some rooms.” Without waiting for an answer, Tarkil headed up the broad stairs into the Pony to find the hostler was correct; the common room was busy with the lunchtime crowd. Once again, he sought out Butterbur to request lodging.

“Oh, sir, you’re back. Yes, it’s good to see you, it is. I’ve still got the room you had before available if you’d like it. Now that reminds me of something, but I can’t think of what it is just now. Two rooms you need? I can give you one across the hall if that’s all right, sir. Nob!” he yelled, “where are you? Oh, there you are, standing behind me the whole time, eh? Take this gentleman’s bag up to his room for him, looks like he needs a bit of rest he does.”

He followed Nob up the stairs but was puzzled when Nob opened the door to a room down the hall. "I thought Butterbur said he still had the room I had last time?"

"This _is_ the room you had last time, sir. Weren't you here just ten days ago?" Nob missed Tarkil shaking his head as he placed the Ranger's pack on a chair. "Is there anything else I can get for you sir?"

"No, that should be all, Nob, thank you." Tarkil decided not to pursue the matter and closed the door behind the small hobbit.

Removing his vest and shirt without Gethron’s help proved to be difficult but he finally freed himself of both to see a spreading red patch seeping through the dressing. Quietly cursing, he removed the bindings and saw that he had pulled several stitches. A stronger curse issued forth.

A knock sounded, then the door opened; Gethron took one look at Tarkil and uttered a similar curse.

“I knew something was up when you hurried off like that. You’re not getting back on that horse for at least another week!" Gethron ordered as he fixed a new dressing in place. Tarkil winced at the touch but acquiesced as he pulled his shirt back on. “Now you lie down and rest!”

“Yes, Mother,” Tarkil grinned though he wearily lay down on the bed.

“You’ve got a right smart mouth on you, youngster! I’d wager whoever trained you had his hands full.” Gethron stalked to the door and glowered back at Tarkil. “Now get some sleep!”

They seated themselves in a corner of the half-full Common Room, their backs to the wall as Poppi came to their table, “What can I get for you today, gentlemen?”

Gethron waited for Tarkil to order. And waited. Eventually he lost patience, “We’ll both have some stew with some bread, and a tankard of ale each, lass.”

She gave a quick nod then hurried away, a gentle scent of cherry blossoms wafting in her wake.

“Were you planning on keeping the poor girl waiting all evening?” Gethron asked, surprised to see Tarkil blush.

“I – I was just --- waiting for you to order first, that’s all,” he stammered.

“Hmmph, how nice of you.” Gethron said, unconvinced.

Poppi came back carefully balancing a tray with their two bowls of stew and two tankards. Gethron noted the lingering look Tarkil gave the girl, guessing at the reason for the younger man’s interest but kept his tongue.

As he watched the gentle swing of Poppi’s retreating skirts, Tarkil recalled his conversation with Valandur. _“You know Butterbur doesn’t hire that type of girl.”_ Perhaps _that_ was the key, he thought. Perhaps it was not that he asked, but that he asked _here._ He glanced around the room and saw several other men admiring her then decided to came up with a plan to get her attention outside of the inn.

They turned their attentions to the stew Poppi set in front of them. “Though you made quite a good rabbit stew on the way down, I think I like this one better,” Tarkil noted.

“You just like the person who served this meal better,” Gethron gibed. Tarkil grinned, then started considering how best his plan could be put in action.

“Tarkil?” Gethron inquired again.

Tarkil started, “I’m sorry, Gethron, what was it you said? I was thinking on something else.”

“I can tell. Just what were you thinking about? You had a look on your face as if you were planning some major campaign,” the older man observed.

“I was just planning what to do tomorrow.” Tarkil replied casually.

“Well, your plans better not involve riding your horse. You’re not in any shape for that.” Gethron reminded him.

“No, I just thought that I’d get up early tomorrow and perhaps do a little shopping.”

Gethron’s eyebrows stretched high. “Shopping? You didn’t hear what I was saying because you were thinking about _shopping?_ "

Tarkil grinned broadly as he shrugged, “So what was it you asked anyway?”

“I’d been telling you how all the horses and ponies had been let loose from the stables a few nights back -- the same night the Black Riders came through” His eyes narrowed, “I still think there is more to your words than you admit. I do not believe you were thinking about _shopping_.”

Tarkil shrugged once more as he finished eating his stew. Gethron followed suit but he continued to eye his companion with suspicion.

Butterbur came towards them, “Begging your pardon, sir, it’s Mr. Tarkil, isn’t it? If I might just have a word with you,”

Tarkil was bemused as he headed to a parlour with the innkeeper. “What can I do for you, Mr. Butterbur?”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I meant to give this to you earlier. I don’t know how it slipped my mind, especially after the last time with the four little folk. But another ranger by the name of Haldon left this in my care – he asked me to give it to you when you arrived.”

Butterbur held out a single sheet of paper. Tarkil glanced at it, recognizing his brother’s script on the outside then pocketed it unopened. “Thank you, Mr. Butterbur, I appreciate it. But why all the secrecy?”

“Oh, after the trouble of last time when that other Ranger Strider was here, I felt I couldn’t be too careful. He took them little folk out into the wilds, he did. I hope they are all right, though Mr. Gandalf seemed to be pretty happy about it. Anyways, sir, I just thought that after all the trouble that night that perhaps this was just as important as Mr. Gandalf’s letter and I better make sure nobody else saw it.” Butterbur said.

Tarkil did not understand what the innkeeper was talking about but was interested to hear about his Captain and the wizard. They headed back to the Common room, Butterbur still nattering as Tarkil returned to his corner table where Poppi quickly came bearing an ale.

“Thank you, Poppi,” he smiled at her.

The evening passed pleasantly but before the night grew too old, he found himself nodding so he excused himself and returned to his room. As he took off his vest, he remembered Haldon’s letter. Unfolding it, he found a short note -- apparently Haldon must have run into the Captain after Tarkil had been injured

_Tarkil_

_The Captain informed me that you were sorely injured but says the last time he saw you you were starting to mend. I hope your injuries are not too grievous and this letter finds you well._

_Valandur has been assigned to Sarn Ford and I find myself removed from my post by the Havens to be sent to guard the area between the Last Bridge and Rivendell. The Captain would not say why there were such changes, but the rumours are flying._

_Do not forget Elaria’s birthday is next month. I picked up a comb I thought she would like. So don’t buy one for her, too. If you see Val, remind him too. Let’s see if we can get leave together so we can surprise her._

_Keep safe, little brother. May your arrows fly true and Eru protect you._

_Haldon_

_p.s. I would recommend you do not go near the villages at the base of the Emyn Beraid for a while. I’m afraid they might mistake you for me, and I’m not too popular there right now. Apparently one of their young ladies became a little overly smitten and claims I made a promise that I didn’t. (Well, I don’t remember making that particular promise anyway.) H_

Tarkil groaned aloud, “Oh, Haldon! Another one? Soon I’ll have no place left in the north that I’ll be able to go.” He folded the letter, and packed it in his bag.

“Tarkil, you all right, lad?” Gethron called through the door as he rapped lightly upon it.

He opened the door, “Yes, Gethron, I’m fine. What’s up?”

“You feeling well? I thought I just heard you groan.” Gethron worried.

“What are you, my nursemaid?” Tarkil jested. “I’m tired, ‘tis all. And as for the groan, I just read a letter from Haldon who has informed me there is yet another village I mustn’t go near.”

“Actually, I _am_ your nursemaid,” Gethron responded drily. “The captain said I was to stay with you until you were fit for duty. His exact words. Now why can’t you go near this village? What did you do?”

“ _I_ did nothing,” Tarkil frowned, “It’s just – well, it’s said that I bear a strong resemblance to Haldon and he keeps bedding the local girls whose fathers don’t take too kindly to their daughters being debauched. And if they see me, they think I’m him. Oh, it’s too long a story but it’s happened before. So now he leaves me a note telling me of the latest village I must stay away from.” He rubbed his jaw ruefully as he remembered the last time he’d been mistaken for his brother.

Gethron raised his eyebrows, “I’m surprised that they let him patrol inhabited areas and don’t just send him out into the wilds. I know the Captain and Halbarad don’t take too kindly to such behaviour. Not a fitting image for our kind. Best we keep a low profile.”

Tarkil sighed, “I know that, but for some reason girls just flock to him like bees to a hive. I don’t think he ever means to create such disturbances… Anyway, I’m turning in, I’ll see you in the morning, Gethron.”

~~

Finally alone in her room, Poppi carelessly unbound her thick hair, dropping the band on her table. She ran her fingers back from her temples to loosen the dark curls then gave a heavy sigh. Mr. Butterbur treated her well, she couldn’t complain. Her wages well compensated her for the sometimes taxing days, _and nights,_ she added with a sigh.

The small mirror drew her attention. She frowned. Pulling her hair back, she checked her profile first from one side, then the other, before tossing the curls loose again. With a deepening frown, she turned the mirror down.  
  
She would like to be courted, she pouted, but farmers were boring. As much as she liked the freedom of living and working in town, she’d not met the nicest kind of boys here. _Men_ came unbidden to her mind. _Rangers.  
  
No matter._ Much to her family’s dismay, she felt no urgency to marry and settle down. _Just as well._  
  
Suddenly uncomfortable, Poppi walked across the room to stare out the window.  
  
Rangers frequented the tavern. Tall men that moved with grace and strength not seen in the Breelanders. _Handsome._ She tucked back a wisp of hair. Too serious by far, frightening with their weapons and quiet talk at the tables. Some would be friendly on occasion. _Too friendly when they were not quiet._ She didn’t know what strange ways they might have in their far homeland, so discouraged them sooner than she would a Breelander. Although she would always regret it, remembering later their bright eyes and wide easy smiles. Could it be wrong to walk with one under the stars, as some asked on occasion. As one asked often with a bold grin and a wink that made her catch her breath. She would be safe, she had no doubt, from the dark, but she feared she would not be safe from the Ranger when he asked as boldly for a kiss as he did for the walk.  
  
Poppi thought again of the one that often sat apart from the others, watching the room, his pipe glowing as he drew on it. An infrequent visitor to the Pony, he was familiar to her, but she knew nothing more about him than that he spoke softly in his rich voice and was kind to her. She felt a strength about him, even more than in the others. It drew her to him. She’d looked in his eyes one time, by accident. She looked up to see him watching her as she filled his mug. The depth and strength of what she saw filled her with hope and fear. She would walk with him if he asked. She knew he would not, when his eyes touched her they always slid past. But still she treasured the moments when he would call for a bowl of stew and a loaf, or to have his mug refilled.  
  
Poppi's thoughts returned to the bold Ranger and she smiled at his teasing. Handsome, yes, but she knew when she dismissed him he went down the road to pay for what he wanted. He’d been sweet tonight, and solemn, as he was on occasion. _Preoccupied._  
  
 _Sweet? Hungry for sweets more likely._ Poppi blushed to remember how he stared at her. _No matter._ She leaned against the sill to stare into the night and tried to put his face from her mind.

****

Thanks to WR for allowing me to use her character in this story and for providing Poppi's point of view.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

“What are you doing up this early, Gethron? I thought you’d take advantage of a chance to sleep in?” Tarkil shoved the plate of toast towards the older Ranger.

“Hmph, yes, I don’t often get that opportunity. But I had to get up before I burst. You know what they say about ale: you don’t buy it, you rent it,” Gethron confessed as he took a slice and spread jam over it.

Tarkil chuckled, “That’ll teach you to stop drinking so much, old man!”

“Old man! I’m not an old man. Well, not that old…” Gethron ceased his protests as he saw Tarkil’s attention snap to another part of the room. The younger man suddenly stood. “Where are you off to? You haven’t finished your breakfast yet!”

“I told you, I have some shopping to do,” Tarkil said over his shoulder as he hurried away.

“Oh, so that’s your plan, is it, lad?” Gethron said when he saw Tarkil follow the barmaid out the door. “You _were_ planning a major campaign last night. And from the looks of it, you're starting with a little reconnaissance mission. Well, this I’m not going to miss.” He grabbed several pieces of toast then hurried after the two.

Staying deep in the shadows, he leaned against a building as he pulled out his pipe, watching Poppi as she walked through the market stopping at certain stalls to haggle with the merchants. He tamped down the last of his pipeweed and lit it, patiently smoking as he continued his surveillance until she finished her business in the market then turned back towards him. He didn’t move but waited until she had passed by before casually following only to lose sight of her when she entered a general store.

After allowing a few minutes to pass, he extinguished his pipe then followed her. A small bell jingled as he pushed the door open. She stood at the counter talking with another girl; both women looked up briefly as they watched him enter.

“Can I help you, sir,” the shop girl called.

“I need some pipeweed, but I need to look for a few other things first. I’ll just look around -- you can continue helping this young lady. She was here before me, after all,” he answered evenly.

He meandered around the store, hearing the two women giggle and gossip, then hovered around the counter where the scents were sold as an idea slowly burgeoned. He looked over at the serving girl, inquiring, “If I'm not interrupting, could you perhaps help me? I need to purchase a present for my sister and thought she might like a bottle of scent.”

The girl hurried over to pull a few small vials from the shelf. “What does she like? Floral scents? Fruit? Or perhaps spice?”

That question took Tarkil aback momentarily. He had no idea there were such choices in women’s perfume. “I … I don’t know,” he stuttered, “I’ve never bought perfume before.”

“What type of scent does she normally wear?” asked the shopgirl.

He looked at Poppi as he saw the opportunity he sought. He asked, “Can you help me, miss? My sister is about your age, I imagine. What type of scent do you like?”

She hesitated then came over to where they stood. “Well, my lord, I can’t speak for your sister, but I prefer a lighter scent. I can’t abide those women who seem to soak in their scent.” Her voice was soft, with a gentle lilt common to the Breelanders.

Her hazel eyes entranced him once more. And her hair! He'd never seen her thick dark curls left unbound before, so different from the long, straight locks of the girls back home.

The bell over the door jingled again interrupting his reverie and he glanced over to see Gethron enter the shop. The older ranger returned his gaze levelly, not acknowledging that he knew Tarkil at all. Tarkil briefly puzzled over this.

“Can I help you, sir?” the girl asked of her new customer.

Gethron pointed to some of the ironware hanging on the opposite wall. “Yes, I need some new pots. Could you show me some of your heavier ones over here?”

“Certainly sir, I’ll be right with you when I’m done with this gentleman,” the girl told him.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you could show them to me now.” He added gruffly, “If you don’t mind, that is, sir?”

“Not at all, this isn’t a decision I wish to be rushed with. Go ahead and serve the gentleman. I don’t mind waiting,” Tarkil told the frowning girl.

She pushed some of the small bottles across the counter towards Tarkil saying, “Why don’t you just smell a few and see which you prefer” then she pulled Poppi aside to whisper something to her.

Tarkil silently thanked Gethron for giving him such an opportunity to be alone with Poppi. He picked up a bottle and pulled the stopper, sniffing the scent. He wrinkled his nose, “Phew! I don’t think she’d like that one. Reminds me of some medicine my mother used to give us!”

He tried a few more then held one out towards Poppi saying, “This is nice though. What do you think of this one? It smells like -- cherry blossoms, I think. Would you like this one if it were given to _you_?”

She murmured that she found it quite pleasant but said little more. He tried a few others as he heard Gethron make the shop girl take a variety of pots down for his inspection. He could tell the girl was getting quite exasperated with his companion’s inability to choose.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever introduced myself. I am Tarkil, son of Beleg, of the Angle.” He put a hand on his chest and bowed before her, trying not to wince as he felt his stitches tug. “And who may I thank for helping me today?”

“Poppi, my lord, of Southlinch.” She blushed as she spoke, he noticed.

Gethron finally announced that he couldn’t make up his mind and left the store so the harried clerk returned to serve Tarkil.

“Well, Poppi of Southlinch, thank you for all your help today.” He handed the small vial of scent to the clerk saying, “I have made up my mind. I shall gift my sister, Elaria, this cherry blossom scent.” He counted out the coins then took the package the girl handed him.

“I hope I shall run into you again,” he bade Popppi, bowing once more then left the shop and headed back for the Pony, satisfied with the day’s mission.

~~~

"I hope I shall run into you again." Tarkil, son of Beleg, of the Angle, bowed once more before he left the shop.

"Not a word!" Poppi turned to her friend as soon as the door closed behind the Ranger.

"He’s very handsome."

" _That’s_ the one I’ve been telling you about," Poppi said.

Her friend only smiled and raised a brow. Poppi sighed, tucking a lock behind her ear.

"They aren’t like us," she said and lowered her voice. "I’ve heard they aren’t even men, really, that they have _other_ blood."

"You don’t believe that." Her friend sounded uncertain.

Poppi stared at the door with a frown and tugged a curl. She shrugged. "I don’t have to believe. I see them come from nowhere to stay at the Pony for a week before they are gone again, back to their nowhere. Where are their wives, their children? How do they earn the coin they have?"

"I’ve heard they are kings. That they hold themselves apart and don’t mingle with other men; that they have no homes and only wander."

"Yes, kings and Elves, and that they live forever and can work magic," Poppi giggled. "A fine husband you would pick for me, I think I prefer a farmer!"

 

~~~

An hour later, Gethron stood in Tarkil’s room, his arms folded across his chest, demanding, “Why didn’t you ask her out when you had the chance? I fiddled around long enough with that silly clerk to give you a chance!”

“Because then she would have suspected something. No, I plan on proceeding slowly, cautiously. Once I’ve won her trust, then I’ll ask. And we can’t be seen together tonight in the common room, by the way. Or at least if we do we have to pretend like we don’t really know each other but have just met or something.”

Gethron’s jaw dropped. “What? Where do you get these ideas? Why don’t you just ask her out?”

“You’ve heard me speak of my brother Haldon? You know, the one who has girls fawning all over him? I’ve picked up a few pointers from him over the years." Tarkil grinned as he lay back on the bed exhausted. "And I _can’t_ ask her out in the Pony. I’ve _tried_. I’m a customer then and she says no. You’ve sat in the common room and seen how the men slaver over her. I don’t want to be just one of that number of leeches. Butterbur wouldn’t allow her to say yes to a customer while she’s on duty, anyway. So I have to do it outside of her work --I have to get her to see me as something other than a customer of the Pony. ”

Gethron shook his head, “It’s an awful lot of trouble to go through, lad.” He opened the door then stopped, “So why can’t we sit together? Oh! I've got it. Because of what I did for you back in the store. If she knows we know each other ..."

“Exactly!” Tarkil agreed. “Then she’d suspect it was a setup and all would be lost. By the way, you didn’t come into that store by chance, how _did_ you come to be there?”

“You’re not the only one capable of a bit of reconnaissance, lad. And I hate to ruin your carefully laid plans, but might I point out she served us _both_ last night. So she knows we know each other already," Gethron reminded Tarkil who frowned.

"I'd forgotten about that," then he shrugged. "No matter. We'll just head down at different times so it doesn't look like we're obviously together."

Gethron shook his head. "You'd better watch yourself lad, you're playing with fire here. And it has a way of flaring up when you least expect it. All right, you have a rest and then I’ll ‘meet’ you later tonight?” Gethron winked, then left, chuckling.

  


Tarkil glowered as he saw the man grab Poppi from behind, catching her unaware, making her spill the tankards she carefully carried.

“Here now, wench, how ‘bout you come and sit with me for a while and we’ll have some fun, eh? Or better yet I know of a quiet spot out back we could go. You look like you’re a right tasty morsel, I know a dish you could serve!” He staggered back as she dropped the tankards and squirmed from his grasp then turned around, slapping him soundly. He reached back his hand to hit her in return but found his arm firmly grabbed and twisted behind him. “Hey, what the…?”

“I suggest you apologize to the lady and promise that you won’t touch her again.” Tarkil spoke quietly in the man’s ear, his voice low and threatening. Gethron stood nearby, a hand ready on his sword eyeing the others at the table who glowered at the Ranger’s interference in their friend’s sport.

The room grew silent, all eyes on the two, when Butterbur hurried from the back. “Here now, what’s going on? Mr. Tarkil, sir, is there some problem?”

“This gentleman was just about to apologize for assaulting your barmaid, Mr. Butterbur, and he’s going to pay for the two tankards he made her drop,” Tarkil informed the innkeeper. “Weren’t you?” He tightened his grip when he sensed resistance.

“Yeah, I – I was only funning, I didn’t mean no harm. I’m sorry I grabbed you, miss.” Tarkil reluctantly released his hold and the man snatched his arm back, rubbing it.

“Here now, you lot clear off,” Butterbur told them as he held out his hand for the promised payment. “You’ve had enough ale for tonight.”

Tarkil watched with sudden interest as the large group of men shuffled out, grumbling and swearing at the man who had caused them to be thrown from the inn. He looked back to see Butterbur talking with Poppi then hastened to follow them, Gethron hurrying behind.

 

“Tarkil? What is it? Why are we following them?” Gethron stood in the shadows beside Tarkil as they watched the group head towards a dark house, the last by the South Gate.

“Just a suspicion. Remember me telling you about that house fire – about the tracks I found? “

“Yes, you figured there were at least four men, maybe a lad too. Why?”

“See the big one? Watch how he walks, he’s knock-kneed. So was one of the murderers.” Tarkil whispered.

“So you think he might be one of them.” Gethron watched the last of the men slip behind the thick hedges. “Think Butterbur would know who they were or whose house this is?”

“I can’t think of anyone who would know more about the villagers, let’s go see what he knows. I made a promise to Lilly to find her family’s killers. I intend to keep that promise.”

“Sorry, Mr. Tarkil, I only know Bill Ferny amongst them and that’s his house they were going to from the sounds of it. The other fellows just arrived in town over the past few weeks. I’ve seen them out in the pub, but I don’t know their names. As for what they want?” Butterbur shrugged, “ We’ve had a number of folk coming up from the south, some are just looking for the safety of our land, they’re talking about all sorts of trouble down in their own. But those fellows? They have a lot more money than the rest of the southerners, but they pretty much keep to themselves for now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Butterbur, and if they give you any more trouble let me know.” Tarkil and Gethron returned to Tarkil’s room.

“Well, that tells us very little,” Tarkil unbuckled his sword and shoved it in the corner, then threw his cloak on the chair. “Orc’s blood, Gethron! How am I supposed to find them? They can’t be allowed to get away with such an act!”

“Well, Tarkil, right now there’s not much we can do. We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open. Maybe they’ll let something slip. These types usually do – you know how they like to brag about such things. They’ll probably be back to the inn tomorrow – I doubt you’ll have to wait long.”

“Sit and wait,” Tarkil grew frustrated. “They murdered and tortured those people, they set fire to a house while there were children trapped inside! And we sit and wait for them to tip their hand. Is that the best we can do?”

“And just how is you standing here raging at _me_ helping the matter?” Gethron asked pointedly.

“Does nothing ever phase you? Do you always have to be so damned controlled?” Tarkil angrily threw his vest on top of his cloak.

Gethron pursed his lips, “It’s part of the job, you know that. When you’ve been around as long as I have and seen what I’ve seen, nothing surprises you anymore. And I’ve learned over the years that patience is sometimes your best weapon. Do you good to learn that quickly, lad. You’ll tear yourself apart otherwise. ”

Tarkil ripped open the laces on his shirt, pulled it roughly over his head then threw it on top of his vest. “Angrim always said that too. But sometimes I get so tired of that word, patience.”

Gethron sighed, “They’ll get what’s due them, Tarkil. Eventually. But you shouldn’t have made that promise to the little girl. It’s not one you may be able to keep.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

Tarkil awoke grasping the covers, his breath short, his heart racing. He rolled over while he tried to calm his pulse and catch his breath. The night had been long yet he had slept little, unable to put the thought of the Greenbanks family out of his mind, this latest nightmare of the fire ending any hopes of a peaceful night’s rest.

He gave up trying to sleep, his mind roiling in thought, rising to stand with his forehead against the window pane to watch the stars wheel overhead. He felt useless in his present condition; he wanted to be out on patrol protecting his land rather than languishing in the Pony. He wondered if Gethron resented being trapped here, unhurt, forced to care for Tarkil.

_Trapped._ That’s how he felt within these walls. Enclosed after months of being in the woods and the wilds. His frustration and despair boiling to the surface, he hurriedly dressed, intent on getting out into the open.

He ran down the inn’s wide steps then under the archway and along the cobbled streets until he came to the West Gate only to find it locked. Frustrated at finding his plans thwarted, he changed direction, heading this time for the North Gate, finding it secured as well. _Trapped._

Defeated again, he headed back along the Great East Road then came to the small path that led up the hill. On a whim, he followed its winding path past the hobbit holes dug into the hillside. A few hobbits had risen early as candles were lit, small windows brightly shining in the gloom casting long streamers of light down the hill. He reached the end of the path but continued to climb, stopping for breath occasionally as his bruised ribs reminded him of his enforced inactivity.

 

The Ranger leaned against the trunk of a birch, pulling his great cloak about him to guard against the chill autumn air, as he watched the town awake; more lights appeared in the hobbit holes, and down in the stone houses on the main road, People started hurrying from house to house, carts were dragged along the road, merchants pushed their goods into the street as the market prepared to open. He could see the gates from where he sat and watched as the gatekeepers emerged from their lodges, swinging the gates wide as farmers came with wagonloads of produce to sell. He realized he watched something few ever took the time to notice, from a vantage point high above them all.

Feeling less confined, Tarkil headed back to the town, stopping at the general store as the merchant unlocked the door.

“I forgot to pick up the pipe weed I came in for yesterday,” he told the girl. “Could I get some of the Southlinch?”

“Could I recommend the South Farthing, it is a far superior leaf, sir,” she suggested.

“Yes, I know it is, miss. But it also costs a far superior price. Just the Southlinch for today, thank you.” Tarkil paid the girl then tucked the pipeweed into his pocket and left the store.

He was almost to the Pony when a woman hurried round a corner, bumping into him. “Excuse me, miss,” he apologized then realized it was Poppi,. “How are you today, miss? I didn’t get a chance to ask last night, but were you hurt by that lout?”

“No!” Poppi quickly responded, but added softly. “Only a small bruise where he gripped my arm.” Poppi blushed and lowered her gaze. “Thank you,” she said with a shy smile.

 

“You seem to be in a rush this morning. I do not mean to keep you from your chores. Please excuse me again.” Tarkil gave a small bow then stopped as he noticed her glancing anxiously over her shoulder. “Is there aught wrong, Poppi?” He looked down the road and saw a group of men lingering a few doors away, the brute from last night amongst them. “Were they bothering you? Perhaps I should accompany you until you have finished your errands. If that is all right with you, of course.”

Poppi studied him for a moment then nodded, “I would welcome the escort.”

 

She hurried to the kitchen with her purchases as Tarkil stopped to talk to Butterbur then joined Gethron in the Common room.

“So, how’s your little plan going? This is what, the fourth day? No, the fifth, isn’t it, that you’ve walked her about on her errands. What’s your next move? And you’d better make your move soon, lad, you’re healing up nicely – no problems since I took the stitches out?

Tarkil shook his head, “No, no problems. I just don’t want to scare her off.”

“Well, you’ll be back out on patrol by week’s end, so you’d better come up with something. Take her on a picnic, the weather’s still nice enough for that.” Gethron suggested.

~~

“Just a little bit further, it’s right up here.” Tarkil took Poppi’s hand, helping her up the last few steps as they reached the top of the hill. “Look, isn’t it beautiful this time of year. See how the trees are all changing colour? And how the sun’s rays light them up?”

They stood together, still holding hands, looking down over Bree and beyond past the gates and the hedge, over the ditch, across the downs towards the Old Forest.

“I’ve never been up here before, it’s beautiful. So peaceful being above everything like this,” Poppi marveled. “It reminds me of being out in the fields back home at my parent’s farm.” She sighed.

Tarkil brushed a lock of hair away from her face to tuck it behind her ear, then let his hand rest on her shoulder. “I would like to meet them some day.”

His hand moved unbidden to stroke her hair then, gently, he bent down to brush his lips across hers. Her arms went around him, pulling him tight against her as she eagerly returned his kiss.

Poppi abruptly broke off the kiss with a gasp, but hesitated and did not pull away from him. She stared at him, her eyes wide.

Tarkil drew back in surprise though he kept his arms firmly around her, “What?”

She started several times to speak then innocently touched her tongue to her lips and took a step away. Poppi took another deep breath, almost a sob and stepped back into his arms. Her hands rested on his shoulders and she drew them slowly to the back of his neck. “I have been fearful to walk with you,” she whispered, her dark eyes meeting his. “It seems I was wise,” she smiled and dropped her gaze, “for I find I lack all sense of shame when you hold me.”

He arched an eyebrow at her; he found her behaviour confusing yet enticing as he tried to decide if she was a coquette or a tease. Whatever she was, it was going to be an interesting afternoon he decided.

“You have no need to fear me, my dear Poppi,” he smiled, “I brought you here to show you the view. And, of course, to sample your treats.” He watched as her eyes darted over to the basket they had dropped during their kiss. “Come, let’s spread out the blanket and sit down so you can catch your breath from the climb.”

 

They spread the blanket under the birch, enjoying the bread and meats, tarts and cider she had packed when Poppi asked a question of her own.

“Tarkil,” she stuttered shyly. “I’ve heard that Rangers have other blood, that you’re not truly men. Is that true?”

Tarkil answered slowly, “I have heard those stories too, but I can assure you that I am a man.” He saw she still had questions, “I know that the people of Bree think us different, accuse us of holding ourselves apart from everyone else. My family is an ancient one, our roots go back to the land of Nûmenor far in the west. In fact, my name used to be a nickname for our people, though I was named for an ancient King. But we are bound to this land for it is the king’s land;that is why we protect it so fiercely from the evil that lurks at its borders.”

They talked for the rest of the afternoon, telling each other about their families, Tarkil telling her about his brothers and sister, and she of her sister who had just had a babe before she left for Bree but she hadn’t had a chance to see since it was a few months old.

She stood to look over the town, Tarkil stood behind her, wrapping his arms about her, hugging her to him, enjoying her scent wafting up to envelop him as her head tucked under his chin.

“They wanted me to wed; they were disappointed when I said I wanted to move to Bree to work. Nay, my father was _furious_! He felt it unseemly for me to work instead of settling down.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she blushed, “He said the townsfolk would think I was a wench who would tumble into anyone’s bed for a coin.”

“Yet you miss them, I hear it in your voice” Tarkil said quietly. “Have you been back to visit them since you came to Bree?”

“No, I only get one day off a week. But it takes more than half the day to reach my home so I would waste all my day just travelling there and back again. And that would leave me no time to visit,” she said wistfully.

He bent down, lightly kissing the curve of her neck; she giggled, “That tickles -- your beard I mean.”

She turned to face him, looping her arms about his neck, and he bent down once more to press another kiss against her soft lips. Feeling her melt in his arms, he ran his hands down her back to press her hard against him, then picked her up in his arms and laid her gently upon the blanket, never breaking their kiss. She stiffened briefly, making him pause, but then her fingers wound through his hair, pulling him to her, enticing him to grow bolder. A soft moan escaped her as his hand moved along her body to caress her breast. Poppi threw her head back, eyes closed, her hands moved down his chest then wrapped around him, pulling him closer. He shifted his weight, pressing himself against her; she pushed her hips back against his, her writhing intensifying his desire. He trailed kisses down her neck, as he deftly unknotted the laces of her bodice.

“No!” she gasped, startling him. She struggled briefly as she pushed him away. Turning her back, she shook as she retied the laces of her bodice.

“I don’t understand,” he panted, frowning. “I thought ... you ...” Confused by her reaction, it frustrated him to be stopped so quickly. “Poppi? You…wanted ... didn’t you?”. She certainly was eager enough for his kisses. She had pulled him down to her -- _hadn’t she_? What game did she play, he thought harshly, needing relief from the passion she had aroused. Her demands in the way she moved her hips against him, grinding, teasing him, heightening his desire. So why would she pull away now? _She’s a tease_ , his mind mocked.

He reached out turning her to face him once more then stopped sharply, startled to see tears stream down her cheeks. “Poppi?” he said quietly, “I don’t understand your tears. I don’t mean to take more than you are willing to offer.”

He saw her swallow then shake her head.

“I’ve not been married,” she forced the whisper through her silent tears.

_I have been fearful to walk with you,” she had whispered. “I find I lack all sense of shame when you hold me.” Oh, sweet Eru!_ She had never been with a man.

“Oh, Poppi, I am sorry. I thought...the way you...responded when I kissed you, when I touched you,” he stopped quickly as her shoulders shook again and the tears fell harder. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry Poppi, I will not be...I would not have been so bold, had I known.” He cursed himself for assuming she was experienced with men.

He knelt in front of her, taking a handkerchief to wipe her tears, then lifted her chin, watching her eyes hesitantly lift to his. It pained him to see the tears fall knowing he’d caused them. “It shall not happen again, Poppi my dear, until you are ready. I give you my word.”

Poppi sniffled and took his handkerchief as she wiped her eyes again. “Your touch... I've never desired a farmer's touch." Shrugging uneasily, she finally gave a shy smile. Poppi took the hand he offered in both hers, her breathing deepened for a moment as she studied it. "I'll take you word," she said.

She scrubbed the rest of her tears from her face, and sniffed once more as he pressed a mug of cider into her hand.

“The jug is almost empty, we might as well finish it off,” he filled his own mug and they sat quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

Finally, Tarkil reached out with his free hand, gently pushing a curl off her face, “I would like to see you again, Poppi, but my duties may take me away for months at time, so you may not see me very often. Would you walk with me again when I return?”

Poppi looked down as she considered this, “Yes, I would walk with you again. As long as you hold to your promise.” She suddenly laughed, “I can just imagine my father’s face when I tell him I’m courting a Ranger!” She stood, packing the platters back in the basket, not seeing his smile suddenly fall from his face, his brow furrow.

~~  
They walked arm-in-arm under the archway of the Pony when Tarkil hesitated; Angrim and Huznat walked into the inn ahead of them.

“Is something wrong?” Poppi asked.

“No,” he assured her. “It’s my father’s cousin. I just wasn’t expecting to see him here tonight.”

He gave her a quick furtive kiss, then held open the door allowing her to precede him into the hallway. She headed to the kitchen with the basket while he went to the Common Room to see the two rangers talking with Gethron who nodded his head in Tarkil’s direction during their conversation. Angrim turned as Tarkil headed towards them then said a word to Huznat who gave a quick nod to Tarkil as he went back out the door.

“Tarkil, I’m surprised to see you here. Halbarad told me you were delivering orders to the various posts. If you are finished that, you should have returned to the South Downs. You are sorely needed,” Angrim admonished.

“The lad’s been injured, he’s not been fit for duty, Tamar,” Gethron informed him tersely.

Tarkil slid into his seat beside Gethron during this exchange, noting the tension between the two older Rangers. “I’m getting better, Angrim, but Gethron says it will be a few days yet.”

“Those burns of yours should be healed by now, “ Angrim sat in the opposite seat and scowled. “What’s the problem then?”

“We were ambushed by Orcs a few weeks ago – he took a couple good slices that got infected, and took a nasty knock to his head. He still needs to take it easy for a while more.” Tarkil noticed the tension in Gethron’s voice again and wondered about it.

Huznat came to stand beside Tarkil, and placed a sword on the table in front of Tarkil, “Sorry, Tarkil. I guess this is yours now,”

“Arathand!”(1) Tarkil stared at the sword then looked up in shock at Tamar. “Valandur? What happened?”

Gethron stood abruptly, “Can I speak with you a moment please, Angrim?”

“Later, old man,” Angrim flicked his hand at Gethron as if to dismiss him. “The Nazgûl, of course. They breached our defences at Sarn Ford.”

“Outside. Now, Angrim!” Tarkil was surprised to hear Gethron issue such an order to the commander. Angrim stood slowly, his jaw clenched as he stared at Gethron, then stalked out of the room, Gethron close behind.

Huznat slid into the newly- vacated seat. “Sorry, Tarkil,” the youth said again. “We found him a couple days ago. All the rangers at Sarn Ford died, well, we think they all did. We haven’t found all their bodies yet. We found your brother up near Southlinch. Angrim figures he panicked and ran off. We buried him nice though, the commander even scratched a cirth in a field stone for him at the grave.”

Tarkil gave Huznat an icy glare. “My brother would not have abandoned his post, boy. He lived to fight Orcs. He was a great fighter and would not have ‘panicked and run off’!“ His voice lowered and his fists clenched as anger gripped him.

Huznat missed the warning signs and shrugged, “well, all I know is that Angrim said he was supposed to be guarding Sarn Ford and we found him miles away, his head ten feet from his body. So he must have abandoned his post. That’s what Angrim said.”

 

Angrim stalked out of the room, stopping once they got to the courtyard. “What is it, old man?” he snarled.

“Is that how you tell someone their kin is dead? You let that boy do it for you? Have you no compassion?” Gethron turned on the other ranger, snarling in return.

“He’s not a child, nor a woman who needs to be coddled. He’s a Ranger, he can handle it.” Angrim rebuked.

“You don’t tell someone their brother’s been killed by letting a stripling youth hand them a sword in the middle of a public room! Even a Ranger!” Gethron stared at Angrim, “I remember when we were training all those years back, thinking then how cold you were. I’ve heard stories of you since, but I chose not to believe them, thinking the widows misspoke. I see I was wrong. You _are_ heartless. Is that how you told Tarkil his father and brother were killed? Did you get off your high horse and hand him and his mother their swords so callously? Or did you let someone else, _some child_ , do your dirty work for you then too?”

Angrim stepped closer to Gethron, a hand on his belt knife, "Why are you still here, old man? You're not injured. You should have left him here to recover and returned to your own post, you know how thin we're spread. What are you doing hiding behind his cloak?"

 

Tarkil lifted Huznat bodily from his seat and dragged him through the common room, throwing him through the front door raising a cloud of dust in the courtyard as the youth landed on his back below. He ran down the stairs after him then spied Angrim and Gethron near the stables standing nose to nose so he grabbed Huznat by the collar and hauled him over to the two men. “Tell him you’re wrong! Valandur would not have abandoned his post!”

“He was found miles from Sarn Ford, Tarkil. Valandur was assigned to guard it yet he failed. He was nearly to Southlinch when they caught up to him. He ran away. How else can you explain it?” Angrim said coldly.

“He was brave, he was a fighter! You know him! He is your kin yet you say such a thing! How could you accuse him of being a coward?” Tarkil argued, fists clenched again.

Gethron stepped between the two, “Enough! Angrim -- go inside -- give him some time to absorb all this.”

Angrim sneered at Gethron then snapped at Huznat, “Come on, boy, let’s get some supper.”

Gethron grabbed Tarkil, stopping him from attempting to follow his brother’s accusers. “Come on, lad, let’s go sit in the stables for a bit, get you cooled down.”

Tarkil shook off Gethron’s hold. “Valandur wouldn’t have abandoned his post, Gethron,” he said flatly. “Angrim’s wrong. Val was strong, he was brave. He lived to fight. He wouldn’t have run away.”

“It was the Nazgûl that attacked him, lad. They are evil beyond compare. No one knows what happened down there, what they faced. And who knows whether he was running away from them or chasing them. Don’t listen to Angrim, son.” He guided Tarkil into the stables where they sat on some hay bales. “Valandur? Is he the brother you rode with when I met you?”

Tarkil nodded his head miserably, “He’d just come from the High Pass – that was his regular post. He said they’d had a lot of orc attacks lately, that they were getting braver. He said they’d even heard rumours of the Nazgûl on the other side of the mountains, that they were looking for something. He was only a year older than me, but he wanted to be a ranger for as long as I can remember. He would beg our father to take him out, to teach him to hunt and track….”

Gethron let him ramble then saw Poppi slowly approach carrying a tray with bowls and tankards.

“I thought you might be hungry so I bought you something to eat,” she said softly as she put it on a nearby bale.

Tarkil stood and wrapped his arms about her as he buried his face in her hair. “My dear sweet Poppi,” he murmured.

“Are you all right? What happened in there?” she asked cautiously.

“He got some bad news, miss. Come on, Tarkil, sit down and eat some of this stew your lady friend brought you." Gethron held out a bowl and spoon until Tarkil took them from him, then led Poppi to the courtyard. “He just found out his brother was killed by the Black Riders that came through here the other day.” He saw her shiver at the memory of that night. “Look, miss, there’s a sword in there on the table where we were sitting. I don’t want him to have to see those two other Rangers tonight. Could you go get it and bring it back out for him?”

She nodded and hurried away, returning a few minutes later with the long sword in her hands. “The other ranger, the older one, didn’t want to give it to me," she told Gethron, “but I told him that you had asked me to get it for Tarkil. I hope that’s all right and I didn’t cause any problems for you.”

“No, miss, it’s all right. It was his brother’s sword. And from the looks of it, this one is ancient and worth protecting.“ He saw her look anxiously at Tarkil, “He’ll be all right, miss, I’ll look after him tonight and see he gets to his room. You go back into the warmth – you don’t want to catch a chill in this night air.”

She reluctantly agreed and bid him good night; Gethron took the sword back into the stables, placing it beside Tarkil without a word.

 

************

(1) Arathand -- Sindarin for 'King's Shield', the name of Valandur's sword - an ancient family sword passed down through the generations since the fall of Angmar..

 

To see a description of how I think a Ranger's family is informed of their kins' death, read "Swords Returned", though it is not necessary to follow this story.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

“They’ve gone,” Gethron leaned against the doorframe of Tarkil’s room.

Tarkil nodded, his back to the door as he stood at the window, watching Angrim and Huznat pass through the West Gate. “I know.”

“Don’t let him get to you, Tarkil. Angrim is a tough man, but I can’t believe he really thinks your brother is a coward. Not many of us have had to face a Nazgûl but I can’t see any one thinking such a thing.”

The younger ranger tore himself from the window to pace the room. “He said as much, Gethron. He said that Valandur abandoned his post. He may not have used the word, but that is what he implied. I’ve spent too many years under his command not to be able to read his words for what they _don’t_ say as well as what they do.”

Gethron closed the door, then crossed his arms as he leaned against the solid slab, “You’re over-analyzing things, Tarkil. The grief is too close still. Give it time. No Ranger will think such a thing of those who ran from the Nazgûl.”

Tarkil stopped pacing to glare at Gethron. “You didn’t know him. You don’t know how brave Valandur was. He wouldn’t have ‘run’.” He shook his head and turned back to stare out the window. “I’ve never had to face a Nazgûl, have you? Are they as frightening as that? Could they make a battle-trained man – a Ranger – run from them in fear rather than stand and fight?”

Gethron answered slowly, “I’ve only had an encounter with a Wraith once, and that was when I was running messages many years ago. We were heading for Mirkwood when we felt one nearby. I never got close, but we could feel it.” Gethron struggled to find the words to describe the horror that still filled his memories. “It was like the hand of death lay over us, pulled all the joy out of our very beings. We nearly ran our horses into the ground trying to get away from it. Do you call _me_ a coward for running?”

Tarkil shook his head. “Nay, I’ve seen you fight. You are no coward.”

“And these lads faced more than a single Nazgûl – your scroll says that the full Nine were heading this way. Anyone who accuses the guards at Sarn Ford of cowardice is a fool. No one thinks less of your brother for where he was found. ”

He could see he hit a mark with his words as Tarkil heaved a sigh and looked over at him finally.

“Come on, lad, come downstairs and get something to eat. You’ve hidden out in your room avoiding everyone for long enough this morning.” Gethron urged. He opened the door then paused as he looked back at the younger ranger. “You look good without the beard, you know -- different, but good. And you’d better watch yourself, son,” Gethron warned.

Tarkil looked over his shoulder at the older Ranger, puzzled.

Gethron grinned, “You’ve just started courting her and already she’s got you to shave off your beard. What’s next?” He saw a smile break out on Tarkil’s face and saw him reach out for the bed then closed the door quickly, chuckling as he heard something hit the other side.

Tarkil picked up the pillow and put it back on the bed, then ran a hand over his newly shaved face, remembering how Poppi had come to his room earlier that morning and how such a simple act of shaving had become such an intimate moment.

~~

He answered the knock on the door to find Poppi standing in front of him.

“Mr. Butterbur said you asked for a barber,” she said, as a blush spread up her neck and across her cheeks. Her head bobbed down and she looked up at him through the fringe of her curls. “I didn’t realize this was your room when he told me to come up.”

“I did ask him to arrange for a barber. But I didn’t know that he would send you, Poppi, I didn’t think he allowed his girls upstairs. You do not have to do this if it makes you feel uncomfortable; it can wait,” he assured her.

“He allows us to offer such services to earn a few extra coin, twas my turn.” she hesitated, then smiled shyly as she came into his room, “No, I shall barber you. You gave me your word yesterday and I accepted it. But I must insist that the door stays open. To protect my reputation, you understand.”

“Then the door stays open,” Tarkil assured her, worried that she held ill feelings against him after yesterday’s misunderstanding. “I would not wish to face Butterbur, or the wrath of your father for that matter, at having sullied your reputation.”

 

She started by seating him in the chair, and he had to smile as she obviously tried to keep a professional manner. She unbound his hair and ran her fingers through it, using brush and comb to remove small knots, then took a small pair of scissors and snipped the ends even. He found himself relaxing at her touch, allowing the tensions of the previous evening to ebb. She must have sensed his mood as she worked quietly, murmuring occasionally to him.

Poppi came to stand in front of him as she soaped his face then she picked up the razor and leaned over him, lifting his chin gently with her hand. He found himself looking into her eyes. Tarkil allowed his gaze to fall, then realized where he was looking and quickly glanced away, chiding himself as he felt his pulse quicken at the memory of yesterday’s picnic.

Too soon, she wiped his face then stood back, admiring her handiwork, smiling, “I definitely like you without the beard better,” she pronounced.

He rose slowly, catching her hand with his, lifting it to rub her fingers against his face, then kissed them. “Does it tickle you now?” he smiled.

Her gaze flitted away briefly and she blushed again before shyly looking up at him, “Nay, my lord, ‘tis quite smooth.”

“My name is Tarkil, Poppi, you do not need to call me ‘my lord’ for I am not a lord, merely a ranger.”

She grew serious. “I’m sorry about your brother, Tarkil.”

His playful mood quickly vanished at the reminder. He frowned, “It is a fate we must deal with each day – the women of my village grow up with our absences and the worry that causes but I would understand if you wished not to see me again. ‘Tis unfair of me to ask you to deal with such concerns.”

Her brow furrowed as she considered his offer before finally answering, “There is no other that interests me, and I would like to walk with you again.” Her voice grew firmer as she seemed to win an inner battle, “I shall be here when you return and we can talk more then.”

“Thank you, Poppi, my dear” he repeated as he moved aside a curl that fell in her eyes then gently traced a finger down the side of her face. “That is all I ever hoped for, and more than I expected.”

She hesitated then lifted her face to him as she tentatively put a hand behind his neck, “Just one kiss perhaps,” she whispered, “I would not mind.”

Tarkil bent down, cautiously accepting her invitation, pressing his lips against hers. He kept his eyes open, watching hers flutter closed. Poppi molded her body against his, her hand twined about his hair, pulling him closer, her breath soft on his cheek. Then she stepped away, blushing, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. She set about gathering her tools, “I must be getting downstairs. Mr. Butterbur will be wondering what is taking me so long.” She fled the room leaving him to catch his breath.

~~

He shook himself from his reverie as the chambermaid knocked then stuck her head inside the door asking permission to clean the room. He nodded, and headed downstairs, surprised to find Gethron seated with Halbarad.

“So, Tarkil, Gethron tells me you are nearly healed and ready for patrol. I know you normally patrol the South Downs and are desperately needed there, but the Nazgûl headed east towards Rivendell so we need more men guarding the East Road. Are you up to that?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Tarkil replied confidently, ignoring Gethron’s quick glance askance.

“Good, then you and Gethron can head out tomorrow morning. Head along the Old East Road towards Amon Sul, then turn to the south and patrol from there to the Hoarwell through the Lone Lands." Halbarad rose, “I understand I just missed Angrim – I take it he’s heading down to the Greenway?”

Gethron nodded, “Yes, sir, he’d just gone out the West Gate -- must have been about the same time as you were coming in the south one.”

Halbarad stood as he nodded at Gethron’s words, then paused. “By the way, Tarkil, I was sorry to hear about Valandur’s death. He was a brave fighter, I know.” He put a hand briefly on Tarkil’s shoulder then side-stepped Poppi as she came to take their order. “I’m going to see if I can catch up with Angrim then. Gentlemen.”

~~

The common room was nearly empty late that evening before Tarkil had a chance to talk privately with Poppi again.

“You leave so soon? When will you return?” she asked quietly as she hesitantly sat down on the bench beside him.

“I don’t know. We lost a lot of good men at Sarn Ford – our numbers are thin enough already,” he admitted slowly, then saw her puzzled look. “Do you not know what Rangers do, Poppi? Do you not know that we protect this land from creatures like Orcs and the Black Riders that came through here last week? That we patrol the roads and the wildlands, between the Misty Mountains and the sea so the people of the north – Bree, the Shire, even the lands as far north as Fornost -- are safe?” He frowned as she shook her head.

“I think I’ve heard my father mention Rangers once or twice, and I’ve seen them riding by my parent’s farm a few times, but I didn’t really know what you did,” she allowed.

He sighed, recognizing the common refrain. “Much has been happening of late – you’ve seen the southerners coming to your villages? They flee the troubles of the south, and now that trouble is heading this way. That is why I must leave and cannot say how soon I will return. But we are granted leaves from time to time; I shall head back here to find you. So we may talk some more.” He reached out to place his hand over hers, gently squeezing it.

“I shall be here. And if I see you, we can talk again,” she assured him. “I must get back to my duties.” She removed her hand and walked slowly back to the kitchen.

~~

Poppi woke from an uneasy sleep and went to stare out her window at the stars. She'd been such a fool to pretend it was the few coins she'd wanted when she shaved him. Unbidden, the image of her uncle's stallion came to mind, how he danced and called to the mares, proud of himself and how ready he was for them; how they called back to him and how eagerly they came and stood for his attentions.

She clenched her empty hands against the memory of the soft weight of Tarkil's hair. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, allowing, for a moment, the feel of him to wash over her; how he had lain against her on the blanket in the bright sunshine, the pressure of his movements letting her know how ready he was to fill her. The emptiness ached in her, came near to consuming her even as she fought not to remember how smoothly he slipped his leg between hers and how she'd welcomed him, even demanded more, then pushed him away.

With a cry, she dropped her face into her hands. She'd come to his call easily enough.

She tried to slow her racing heart. _A fool,_ they would call her, or _worse._ Why did she lose her sensibilities when she was near him, when he touched her? She shuddered as the heated memories tingled through her. She took and released a deep breath.

_"Just one kiss perhaps,” she'd whispered, “I would not mind.”_

_Mind?_ She choked back a sob. Since the picnic she'd been able to think of nothing but how she craved his touch. _"...until you are ready."_ He'd promised much with those words and the memories of his lips trailing across her bare skin tormented her at all hours. _As she'd seen the stallion breath deep of a mare's scent and lightly nip her neck and shoulder to test her readiness, dancing away from her kick with delight, sure he would have her the next day, or the next._

She'd angered Butterbur that evening with her inattention and seeing her flush, he'd questioned if she had a fever.

And now Tarkil was leaving.

She let out a heavy sigh. She'd promised to wait for him. _As if she wanted anyone else._ She thought on other kisses she'd shared, others who'd touched her. Stocky, curly-headed farmboys, smelling of sunshine and the good earth they plowed, hesitant as they fumbled with her. Concerned only for their own pleasure, but fearful to offend, they'd touched her only in 'safe' places and not tried to part her lips with their tongues. Poppi's hand flew to cover her mouth at the heat that filled her with the memory of Tarkil's taste and smell.

Slowly, her mind traced back over the last few months. He'd asked many times for her to walk with him, sometimes with a bold wink and a grin, sometimes sweet and solemn. She leaned against the window frame, slumping in defeat. However grateful she'd been for his defense of her, and touched by his pretence of selecting scents in the shop; she should have remembered how he'd reach for her in the Pony. Taking any chance to brush her, his mischievous apology always betrayed it hadn't been an accident. Many times, he'd playfully tried to take her in his arms. Taking her hand, he'd beg to pay for the ale with a kiss in a husky tone that promised more than a kiss. She'd been unable to keep from laughing at his too obvious disappointment with her decline, but always she'd been touched by the honest spark of admiration in his eye.

_Honest?_ Poppi sighed again. He'd only changed his tactics and she'd fallen right into his arms. _...his arms..._ She looked longingly, suspiciously, at her bed, then back at the stars. She'd been warned, always, against the Rangers. _Dangerous men,_ people whispered. _Handsome,_ echoed in her mind. Tarkil's height; he would tower over her father and the farmers she knew. His strength amazed her, how easily he lifted her, how lightly he held her. His smooth dark hair; how she had fought not to bury her face in it, trying to capture the scents that hinted of wild woods, fresh after a rain. She gave herself over to trying to capture the memories rather than push them away. The taste of his lips, his neck; the scent of the leather he wore providing a delicious mix with the taste of a man full-grown.

_A man?_ He'd said he was, but then spoke of Númenor as if it were fact. She knew the legends, how the Half-elven turned against the Elves because they were long-lived but not immortal. How the land sank beneath the waves in punishment for their wickedness.

Her blood chilled. _Protection,_ he'd claimed. She wondered now at the things he hadn't said, how his grey eyes would sometimes be hidden by lowered lids when he answered her questions. He'd not told her his age. He spoke of defending against fell creatures of myth, did he have use of magic?

Poppi gasped at the realization. He'd enchanted her! All the legends spoke of the dark hair and grey eyes of the Elves, of their height and strength, of the danger of speaking to them. _Of touching them? Of allowing their touch?_ He'd told her the truth then, in Elvish riddles.

Was she lost to him? Searching her mind, she'd heard of no defense against such things. _Did she want to be disenchanted?_ He'd asked her to wait for him, spoken of meeting her family. He meant to court her, _didn't he?_ He'd promised to wait, _to satisfy his attentions,_ until she was ready. _Ready to marry?_ What did that mean to his people? She remembered his tales of the women waiting in a lonely village, waiting to hear that their husbands and sons would never return.

Poppi turned to sit on the sill where she'd been leaning, tucking her knees to her chin, she rested her head on the sill until the graying told her the dawn wasn't far behind. She dressed for the day and slipped into the hall.

 

~~

“Tarkil?”

He turned towards the quiet voice that came from a narrow hall behind the kitchens as he passed by.

“Poppi? You’re up early, the sun hasn’t risen yet.” The ranger went down the hall towards her, “It looks like you’ve not slept well. Is there aught wrong? Are you ill?”

She took a step closer to him then hesitantly placed a hand upon his chest, confusion written on her face as she stumbled over her words. “I wanted to … say good-bye before you left… I wanted to… I shouldn’t be doing this, I know, but I just… wanted to … “ Poppi stood on tiptoes and kissed him, lightly at first, then with more fervour as her tongue darted out, tasting him, testing him.

At first Tarkil was surprised by her boldness, then he groaned and wrapped his arms around her, allowing the kiss to deepen. He felt his body reacting, desiring more than a kiss so, reluctantly, he pulled himself away.

“Do you not like it? You did that at the picnic. I thought--” her consternation was plain.

“Nay, I liked it, Poppi. I liked it very much. But it is too tempting; it would be too easy to make me forget my promise.”

She blushed; her eyes flew down to avoid his gaze, then her face blazed scarlet when she saw the reaction she had caused. “Oh!”

He flung his great cloak about him, trying to spare her further embarrassment. “Do not doubt how much you affect me, Poppi, but do not fear me either. I am a man, and I react the way a man would to a beautiful woman’s kiss." He reached out to stroke her face, then leaned down to lightly kiss her once more.

“Oh!” she squeaked again, jumping back. “I have to…I’d better be… Mr. Butterbur will be looking for me. Good-bye, Tarkil!” She scurried down the hall, bolting through the door to the kitchen.

Tarkil leaned heavily against the wall, waiting for a time when he could go out into the common room and seek Gethron for he had no doubt his current state would elicit unwanted snickers.

“There you are, Tarkil, you ready to go?” he heard Gethron approach from behind. “What are you doing down here?”

_Curse him, too late!_ “Nothing, I was just… Poppi just said good-bye.” He chided himself, _I’m behaving like an inexperienced lad!_

“Tarkil? Everything ok?” Gethron sounded worried. “Didn’t reopen a wound, did you?”

“I’m _fine,_ Gethron,” Tarkil ground out. He waited for Gethron to leave then realized that wasn’t going to happen so he rearranged his cloak and turned slowly, “let’s go get some breakfast before we leave.”

The older ranger cocked his head and considered the younger man in front of him then grinned, “Bit warm for wearing your cloak indoors, isn’t it, lad? Why don’t you take it off, make yourself more comfortable?” Gethron didn’t wait for an answer but headed back to the common room, chuckling as he called over his shoulder, “Then again, cloaks _are_ useful to cover a multitude of sins, aren’t they?”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

October 16, 3018 TA  
***********************

“Hobbit footprints!” Gethron called. Tarkil hurried over to the place Gethron pointed, bending over beside his partner to inspect the tracks.

“From the looks of it they’re several days old.” He stood but continued looking down, then slowly followed the tracks. “It looks like there were four hobbits, and they took shelter here in this thicket – almost as if they were hiding, see here’s a handprint where one of them may have knelt down and braced themselves while they waited….” Tarkil looked to the horizon as his voice trailed off, his fingers tapped on the hilt of his sword as he thought.

“What?” Gethron asked, “What is it you’re thinking?”

“When we were in Bree, the old innkeeper was rattling on about how the Captain took four hobbits off into the wilds -- to the east. Said they’d left the day before the Black Riders came through Bree.” Tarkil continued to follow the tracks, “Do you think that’s what the Riders were searching for? The Captain’s orders were to strengthen the south and the West against the Riders – he knew they were coming this way, and all the men were being shifted around the Shire. Didn’t that strike you as odd? I know it did me…the hobbits are so oblivious to anything outside of their borders so why would the Nazgûl or anyone want to attack them?” He stopped talking while he bent down to examine something in the dirt, then resumed as if talking to himself, “What if it wasn’t some _thing_ they were searching for so much as some _one_. What if one of these hobbits know something, or has something, that the Black Riders want? Look there is a man’s boot print here.”

Gethron hurried over. “Looks to be about the size of the Captain’s boot.”

Tarkil nodded his head once, then shook it as he stood once again. “What could a hobbit possess or know that the Nazgûl would want? That’s what’s got me stumped, yet obviously the Captain sought to protect them both by strengthening their borders and by taking those four out of Bree.”

“I heard talk in the inn – I dismissed it as idle gossip, overblown as gossip is – but they said that a few nights before, the night the horses were set loose, one of the hobbits ‘disappeared’ into thin air – don’t you remember me telling you that story?” Gethron grinned, “Oh, no, you were planning your little ‘shopping’ excursion when I was telling you that. Anyway, what hobbit have you ever known that could disappear like that. Perhaps the Captain knew them, or knew what they possessed to give them such an ability and that’s why he took them east – and from the looks of it they’re heading to Rivendell.”

“To seek Elrond’s protection?” Tarkil breathed. “And that’s why Halbarad and the Captain have been so anxious of late and have been shifting our patrols along this way, leaving other areas unprotected. I’ve wondered about that.”

“Well, if the hobbits and the captain were here two days ago, that means the Nazgûl haven’t found them – yet.”

“And that means the Nazgûl will still be looking for them!” Both men scanned the horizon for movement. “Well, these foot prints mean they’re headed towards the Last Bridge – that’s just a little ways from here. Perhaps we should station ourselves nearby to waylay anyone attempting to cross.”

“I don’t know if that’s what Halbarad meant when he commanded us to patrol the Lone Lands, Tarkil.” Gethron’s brow furrowed, “He …”

“He what, Gethron?”

“I don’t think he meant for the two of us to try and hold the bridge against the Nazgûl.” The old Ranger pulled his cloak’s hood over his head, “Curse this rain! It’ll make it impossible to light a fire tonight, and the wind’s chill blows through my bones.”

“Well, it’ll soon be dark, we might as well make camp close by, for tonight at the least – though I fear you’re right, it’ll be impossible to keep a fire going tonight in this downpour.”

“And not even a fit tree to cover us – just this scrub,” Gethron grumbled. “What do you think – this side of the bridge or the other?”

“This side, we’d have no chance to stop them once they’re over the other side.” Tarkil picked his way through the thickets and scrub looking for a suitable place for a night’s cover. “It’s a cheerless land, especially this time of year. And I doubt we’d find much in the way of firewood anyway, but we’ll need to find some sort of shelter for tonight.”

“Lad, you realize that we’ll not be able to make much of a stand against four Nazgûl – if there are just four, for all we know it might be all nine who have come north. Look how many men couldn’t stand against them at Sarn Ford.”

Tarkil turned on Gethron, “We shall at least try! I’ll not have it said that I allowed them to pass unchallenged!”

“Ah, so that’s what’s on your mind. You’re not worried about the hobbits and Aragorn -- you’re thinking about what Angrim said about your brother. You’re worried people’ll believe him and think the same about you.”

“Arrggh!” Tarkil snarled and stomped away, “I’m thinking about following orders! I’m thinking about protecting my captain and those four hobbits who obviously are very important to Sauron’s servants.”

“And we’ll die trying, is that it?” Gethron’s voice hardened, “Son, you’re still young, but that way of thinking isn’t going to let you grow much older. Standing here at the bridge isn’t following orders – Halbarad told us we were to patrol the Lone Lands as far over as the Hoarwell, he said nothing about coming as far north as the Bridge, nor that we were to specifically block it and hold it. The hobbits and the Captain passed by here two days ago, for all you know the Nazgûl are already on the other side. Now come help find a suitable place to camp tonight so we don’t catch our deaths from an ague. Now that would be a worse way to die.”

 

It was a miserable night. It was a miserable land. Tarkil pulled his hood deeper over his head as rivulets dribbled onto his face and down his neck beneath his shirt. They sheltered in a small thicket that did little to stop the rain, given how most of its leaves had fallen already, but it offered a meager break from the keening wind.

Gethron had a point Tarkil had to acknowledge as much as he didn’t want to admit it. The Nazgûl might already have crossed, but he still wanted to be here – just in case.

 

Gethron huddled under one of the larger bushes of the thicket, knees to his chest, his great cloak wrapped around him against the driving winds and pelting rain. “You asleep lad?”

“No! I’m on watch, old man. I don’t fall asleep on watch,” Tarkil snapped.

“It’s too cold to sleep anyhow.”

“You all right, Gethron?”

“Yes, lad, I’m all right, just chilled to the bone.”

“Sorry we couldn’t get a fire going,” Tarkil had tried but they could find no dry wood, and their efforts had been for nought as the wind and the rain denied them that comfort. “Try to go back to sleep, it’ll be your watch soon enough.”

“Can’t sleep. I keep hearing it drip through the brush – it’s ruddy torture! I keep waiting for the next drip, then the next.” Gethron shifted himself so he could look over at Tarkil from under his hood. “So tell me what’s going on with this lady friend of yours – Poppi? I have to admit you played that pretty smooth – and you always said Haldon was the operator in your family. You got her all set up for the next time you visit?”

Tarkil frowned, “I didn’t _play_ her - at least I wasn’t trying to trick her into my bed if that’s what you’re implying. But yes, she’s said she’ll allow me to see her next time I’m in Bree.” _I expect I'll see more of her than she allowed this time._

“But she came anyway from what I could tell from the looks of you the other morning,” he heard Gethron chuckling.

“Enough of your word play, old man! She’s an innocent – she wouldn’t allow me much more than a kiss.” _Not that I didn’t try, but now I’ve given my word._ A sigh escaped him.

“You mean all that day up on the hill, you never...? At all? And then when she came to your room to shave you, you didn’t then either?” Gethron’s voice was disbelieving then another chuckle broke the silence, “No _wonder_ you’re so frustrated and angry, lad!

“Go to sleep, Gethron, I won’t discuss such things with you!” Tarkil turned to the side, removing the bedraggled ranger from his sight. He continued to watch the surrounding area though he couldn’t see far in the night’s gloom, relieved for the silence that followed.

“Can I ask you then, given the fact that she’s a Bree-lander and you won't be marrying her, just what your plans are for this relationship?” Gethron asked eventually.

“What? And why aren’t you trying to sleep – twill be your watch soon. I don’t like the idea of lying unguarded while you fall asleep on your watch.”

“Well, you say she’s innocent. And imply that you didn’t – well, live up to your brother’s standards, shall we say. So what is the purpose of chasing her? Do you love her? Do you plan on setting her up as your mistress? Or do you plan on pulling a page from your brother’s book and are simply thrilled by the hunt, ready to sprint after the next comely maid once you’ve captured this one?”

“Go to sleep!” Tarkil dismissed Gethron’s questions, but as he listened to the rhythm of his companion’s breathing finally settle into a slumber, he began to think on the questions he’d asked.

_What do I want?_

He desired _her_ ; her scent filled his head when she was near, he could feel her soft curves in his arms even now. When he’d first asked her to walk with him, it was because he was intrigued with her, so different from the women back home. Then over the months, that intrigue had changed. _That’s strange,_ he thought, _it’s not a momentary whim nor one of Haldon’s chases._ He saw her eyes staring back at him, brimming with tears, and felt the regret again that he’d put them there.

He had assumed that the barmaid was... _well, willing to tumble into anyone’s bed for a few coins,_ but thought she was playing hard-to-get, not an unknown ploy to make a few extra coins. Yet some part of his mind knew that she wasn’t. _Is that what attracted me? Am I like Haldon? Thrilled by the chase? Or am I more like Angrim perhaps? Willing to use a woman to my own ends?_

_If she is an innocent, and allows me to claim her, what then?_

_IF_ she is an innocent. _but is she?_ mocked a dark part of his mind. She claims she has no experience, yet she certainly was bold enough in the hall last week. And she teased me well enough upon the hill two days before that. Memories of her pushing back against him, her delicious pressure warming his hardness, temporarily drove away the night's chill. Certainly no innocent would react so boldly?

_“I can just imagine my father’s face when I tell him I’m courting a Ranger!”_

“Orc’s blood,” he quietly cursed. He suddenly understood Haldon better. He’d played his brother’s game too well. He knew she would accept his touch soon if he pressed her, if he'd had another day or two in Bree, her reserve would have broken he was sure. But what _did_ happen after that? He could not imagine sharing her attentions with another, suddenly realizing he felt protective of her. Would she continue to wait for him – months at a time with no attention? Or would she grow lonely and seek another’s warmth? Or another’s coin?

Or more likely would he face the wrath of her father – and possibly the folk of Southlinch as well as Bree? _Will I have to leave a message for Haldon to avoid that area?_

Tarkil snorted at that thought, then shifted, turning his back to the wind as it howled about him. His watch seemed to grind to a halt after that, the minutes passing slowly as the rain pelted down from all angles, driven by the swirling gale, until Gethron finally stirred and took over the watch.

 

Tarkil dreamed of lying on that blanket up on Bree hill, warmed by the autumn sun, warmed by Poppi’s form beneath him when she pulled away from him once more and a bitter cold descended upon him. He swam from the depths of his slumber, hearing thunder in the distance, muddled by the windswept rain, and the swirl of the water against the arches of the Bridge. He shivered, tugging his sodden cloak about him in a futile attempt to ward off the cold then realized that the thunder didn’t end but grew louder, closer.

Thick clouds covered the moon, blanketing the land in a menacing dark, not allowing him to see five feet away through the constant pounding rain. Tarkil struggled to stand, fighting a horror that grabbed his heart of a sudden, and drew his sword, aiming towards the hoofbeats that resonated through the earth and up through his feet. “Gethron? Where are you?”

The fear clutched harder when there was no answer. “Gethron!” he yelled into the night. The hoofbeats were near level when he finally realized what – nay, who – would be moving at such speed this time of night.

He charged from their makeshift shelter and scrambled across the coarse field, fighting through brambles that tore at his clothes, But the rain had drenched the land, and thick mud hindered his desperate sprint as it grabbed at his feet, making him slip and fall flat, then stumble again as he tried to gain a foothold. He yelled as he ran, “Gethron – where are you? The riders approach! We have to try and stop them!”

Terror took hold; Tarkil had to force his body to continue, as fright seized his spirit, and dread filled his soul.

Still he continued to struggle towards the pounding hoofbeats, still calling for the old Ranger, fighting the mud and the rain and the fear. But by the time he managed to slide down the steep slope to the Bridge, the hoofbeats rang clear. Upon the bridge then beyond.

A shouted curse went out into the dark night as Tarkil vented his anger and frustration at failing to face the dark Riders, for failing to slay his own doubts.

~~

A groan came from the ground on the other side of the road, startling him from his ire. “Gethron?” He made his way over to the source and found the old Ranger in a heap on the ground, wounded and bleeding. “What happened to you? Why didn’t you wake me?” Tarkil sheathed his sword then turned his friend over, feeling for his injuries in the gloom of the night.

“All that talk of your brother made me doubt that time back in the East, made me wonder. I … found myself standing here on the road,” Gethron coughed, “And of a sudden they were headed right for me. I called but the rain and the wind swallowed my words. I think my leg is broken, lad, and one of them slashed me.”

Tarkil paused, worried, “Was it a Morgul blade, Gethron? I’ve heard tales of what they could do … do you think they are true?”

“I don’t know, Tarkil. Much of what is thought to be old men’s tales to scare little children has turned out to be truth.” Gethron coughed again as Tarkil resumed checking his wounds.

“I don’t think your leg is broken, it looks like it’s been twisted; you won’t be walking on it easily for a while to come. What happened, Gethron? What were …. What were they like? Did you see them,” Tarkil wondered, “being so close?”

“Nay, lad, they were black as the night. I saw more of their horses as they ploughed through me. I don’t think they saw me, as I stood more to the side of the road, I’m afraid to admit. But the last one… he did. He’s the one who pulled his sword and hacked at me as I spun from the impact of the first’s horse.”

“I need to get you out of this rain, and off the road.” Tarkil lifted Gethron, grunting under the weight, his feet sliding on the mud as he tried to climb the steep hill to their shelter.

 

“Your horse is gone, Gethron. Most probably frightened by the Nazgûl – that stunted tree you tied him to has snapped in half, it’s probably trailing him still. Nálo looks like he was pulling on his too. You’ll have to ride with me.” Tarkil led his own stallion to the injured man, then mounted and lifted him up to ride behind. “Are you up to this?”

“Yes, I’ll manage, thanks, son. Where are we heading? Back to Bree?” Gethron shifted his weight on the horse then grabbed hold of the younger Ranger.

“No, I’m going to head to Rivendell – I’m worried about that wound of yours. I keep thinking of the tales of the Morgul blades. I think the elves should look at it, just in case.”

*********************

Notes:

**Nazgûl across the Last Bridge:** I’ve arbitrarily chosen a date for them to cross. There were five Nazgûl on the West side when Frodo was stabbed (FOTR – A Knife in the Dark), and then all Nine were on the east side of the Mitheithel by the Flight to the Ford. At some point they would have had to cross the bridge. Whether they met up before or after is unclear, so I deliberately left the number of Nazgûl that crossed that night vague. And on that date, it was raining…

“They had been two days in this country when the weather turned wet. The wind began to blow steadily out of the West and pour the water of the distant seas on the dark heads of the hills in fine drenching rain. By nightfall they were all soaked, and their camp was cheerless, for they could not get any fire to burn…” FOTR – Flight to the Ford


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

“From here we’ll split into two groups,” Aragorn announced, “One group will follow the Bruinen until it meets with the Mitheithel then continue south, the other will stay along the foot of the Mountains and will meet up with the other group at Tharbad. Look for any trace of the Nazgûl or any other of Sauron’s forces. We must make sure the land is clear and the Nazgûl have indeed been flushed from Eregion.”

Names were called as the division was made, Tarkil noted that most of the rangers were sent in the group that would follow the river, while mainly elves took the path closer to the mountains. They repacked their horses as provisions were equally split between the two groups, and soon the two groups bid farewell to each other and headed off in their separate directions.

Rumours swirled amongst the Rangers about why the land must be cleared, and the reasons for the Nazgûl’s entry into the north. Aragorn said little, and Elrond’s sons would say nothing at all which only fuelled the rumours.

The first days out before they split into their separate patrols, the group discovered the stiff and swollen bodies of five dark horses on the rapids of the Bruinen; a black cloak had also been found Tarkil heard. Yet no sign of the wraiths could be traced.

The group traveled in a ragged line, spread out across the land from the river, searching for any sign of passage by man or beast. When they stopped each night, watches were drawn, and firewood gathered, as the men quietly murmured to one another of the latest rumour, or made half-hearted attempts to tell jokes to relieve the tension.

Tarkil found himself paired for his watch with Borgil who scowled at him when the assignment was called. He knew no jokes or light banter would be made between them. The pattern was set for many nights, and most nights passed without a word between them, though during the day he would often see Borgil ride beside a friend, murmuring as they both glanced in his direction. Occasionally, a voice would raise slightly, deliberately he thought, their words aimed across the space in his direction – words like “ _coward_ ” and “ _deserter_ ” that raised his ire. He tried to shrug off their taunts, yet could feel them fester deep in his heart angering him more.

 

“So they stole the pipeweed then set the house on fire with the kids still inside?” Meglin lit his pipe, then shook his head as they sat at that night’s campfire. “I’ve heard complaints by people coming from Bree about all the southerners heading north, though not many of them have come as far as Fornost. But I hadn’t heard of anyone stealing pipeweed.”

A chuckle went round the fire, “Not many venture that far north these days, Meglin! Save us Rangers, that is.”

“What do they want with the pipeweed anyway? It’s only us northerners who smoke it, I didn’t think anyone in the south had such a habit.” Meglin wondered.

“No, it is known by many names in the south – Westmansweed by the lower classes, Galenas by the noblemen -- though it is not as fine as the South Farthing leaf. Fortunately for us, the Shire does not send its leaf to Gondor.” A hush came over the group as they realized it was Aragorn who spoke, standing in the shadows behind them, his own pipe in hand. “I received reports of that theft and a few others beside, though that was the most vicious I’d heard reported, and I’ve sent orders to the various fords and crossings to check any shipments of weed heading south.” Aragorn gestured with his pipe towards Tarkil, “I sent them with Haldon just before we left Rivendell. It is fine if the farmers wish to sell their weed for a profit, but if it’s being stolen from them we need to stop it from heading south so the thieves may profit from another's misery.”

 

At night the men around him settled onto their bedrolls as the fire dimmed to red embers, throwing eerie shadows out amongst the trees and rocks that surrounded them as an occasional knot hissed and popped, then briefly flared into a small flame that soon struggled and died.

The two Rangers quietly walked the perimeter of the camp, ignoring each other, as they searched with their eyes and their ears for any signs of trouble, finding none. Tarkil found it unnerving that there were no hoots of owls, nor night jars screeching, even the crickets didn’t call through the night.

Tarkil pulled his cloak about him against the night’s chill and breathed out, his breath forming a small cloud before it dissipated in the air.

The waters of the Bruinen swirled and bubbled nearby, the only sound other than the groans and snores of the quiet sleepers on its banks; its waters warmer than the surrounding air caused eddies of mist to rise in ghostly ribbons that wrapped around the treetops in strange blankets.

“Are you scared, son of Beleg?” Borgil hissed as he passed.  
  
“Why are you here, Borgil? I thought you were to help patrol Sarn Ford? How is it you survived when so many others didn’t” Tarkil finally allowed himself to voice the question that haunted him since he’d first seen the former commander join their group.

“You failed in your mission! You were too late in sending me, the attack had already happened. You removed me from my post and still didn’t help save your brother from disgracing himself.”

Tarkil’s face froze into a mask, but his voice betrayed his anger as it dropped into an icy tone, “Be careful how you speak of my brother, Borgil.”

“I was there when they found him, miles from the Ford. He’d run away, a coward who deserted his post, abandoned his fellow Rangers when they needed him most,” Borgil needled.

Tarkil’s hand curled around the hilt of his belt knife, wanting to draw it but restrained himself with difficulty. “I have warned you this night, Borgil, to stop this prattle. You were not there to face the Nazgûl, you do not know what happened. Do not disparage my brother.”

“I even helped bury him, while Angrim’s young trainee retched like a babe.” Borgil ignored Tarkil’s warning, continuing to jeer, “He’s a cousin of yours, isn’t he? This Huznat? I see he has the family’s trait of weakness.”

Tarkil launched himself at the other Ranger, pulling his knife, pressing it against his neck, then felt a hand staying his as he was pulled off of his antagonist.

“Gentlemen! That is enough! We have enough battles to fight against Sauron’s minions without fighting ourselves!” Aragorn angrily stood between the two men.

“I believe I shall keep this for now,” an elegant yet steely voice said in his ear as the hand prised the knife from his fingers.

“Lord Elrohir!” Tarkil breathed as he gave no more resistance, willingly handing him the blade.

“Over here, both of you!” Aragorn commanded as he lead them away from the camp where the curious heads that had risen at the disturbance finally settled down after some muttering.

“I have heard what has gone on between you two – it is why I put the two of you together for your watches. I had hoped you would work it out privately. But this behaviour is intolerable and it will stop. Here! Now! You are Rangers of the North, Dúnedain both!” Aragorn paced in front of them as they stood a few feet apart, still tense in each other’s presence.

“Borgil – you will cease this harassment of Tarkil. ALL those that fought at Sarn Ford fought bravely against a dreaded foe; you have not faced the Nazgûl, you shall _not_ judge those that did. When you belittle one Ranger of Sarn Ford, you discredit us all. I will not have such talk in our ranks anymore. Is that understood?” Aragorn stared hard at the former commander.

“Yes, my lord Aragorn, it is understood.” Borgil nodded his head though Tarkil thought his jaw ground as he said it.

“Leave us – resume your patrol,” their leader dismissed him.

“Tarkil,” Aragorn stood in front of him, staring down, his eyes narrowed. “You seem to have a problem controlling your anger even though you know a Ranger must maintain control at all times.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tarkil had trouble maintaining eye contact with the older man, feeling as if Aragorn could reach into his very soul and feel the conflict that raged.

“No one here thinks any of the Rangers who died at Sarn Ford are cowards, Tarkil. And anyone who does has not faced a Nazgûl and so cannot speak of how they would react to such terror. I’ve watched Borgil needle you the last few weeks, he’s doing it because he sees you react. Stop reacting, and his harassment will cease.”

Tarkil doubted that Borgil would stop, and realized his doubt must have shown on his face when Aragorn continued.

“No one _except you_ is listening to his talk; everyone here knows Borgil is angry that you relieved him of his command. And everyone here knows exactly _why_ you did that and under whose orders you acted. It is he who should be worried about his own character instead of harassing you about your brother.“

The captain began pacing in front of Tarkil once more, “Halbarad said you did well in how you handled delivering his orders – my orders – to the posts. He speaks highly of you and the way you command others. It would be a shame to lose your abilities; we need all the men we can get right now for the war is coming to our very borders. Sauron is rising again and the fight we have feared for an age is upon us. I would not lose your sword, or another’s, to such petty anger. I cannot allow such behaviour amongst our ranks, Tarkil. It is hard enough having to tell a grieving widow or parent that their kin has died at the hands of an Orc, I will not deliver the news that they died at your hands because you were too weak to control your temper.” Aragorn stopped his pacing and stared down at Tarkil once more, “If you cannot learn to maintain control of your anger, then you do not belong here with the Rangers.”

Tarkil flushed and dropped his eyes briefly before returning to meet the stern gaze of his captain, and stood straighter, “Yes, sir. You will not need to deliver such news. I give you my word that I will learn the control you require of a Ranger.”

Aragorn nodded, “Good. I know you shall keep your word. Now resume your patrol.”

 

The next morning found Borgil and Tarkil sleeping on opposite sites of the camp, keeping as much distance between them as possible. A few of the men gibed Tarkil over the incident, mainly about how he had disturbed their slumber, but most left him alone to mull over his captain’s advice.

“Tarkil,” Aragorn called out.

“Oh oh,” one of his friends muttered to him with a wry grin, “You’re in trouble now…the Captain’s had the night to think it over and come up with a suitable punishment. Better keep your head low, ‘kil.”

It wasn’t a punishment, he soon found, but an assignment.

  
Tarkil squatted by his bedroll, packing provisions for his journey, when a shadow fell upon him. He looked up to see Lords Elrohir and Elladan standing over him, Elrohir holding out the belt knife, “I believe this is yours. Perhaps your next opponent will be a more worthy and deserving one.” He held Tarkil’s gaze with his own, “Aragorn needs all the help he can get, Ranger, do not desert him. Indeed all of middle-earth itself now looks to our brother. We cannot allow him to be distracted because a child like yourself throws a tantrum.”

The ranger swallowed and returned the peredhel's gaze, “He shall not be distracted by me again, my lord Elrohir. I would not break my oath as a Ranger or go back on my word to him.” Elrohir raised an eyebrow, then glanced at his brother; they both gave a slight nod of their heads, then turned back to the group.

Tarkil mounted Nálo, and turned him towards the Bruinen – picking a path along the riverbank, away from the camp.

 

~~

Poppi untied her apron and laid it, folded, on the counter. "Cookie? I'm off to my room unless there is a last order."

"Just one," Cook bustled out of the pantry with a filled bag. "One of them Rangers, if you can be a dear, tote this out to the barn. He's only stopped long enough to change horses they said, but he asked for a bite for the way."

Poppi nodded and took the bag. Adding an apple before she tied it closed she bid the cook good night and headed for the stable. The cool night breeze lifted stray tendrils that fell loose about her face, and tempted her to loosen the ties at her throat, but at hearing a familiar voice murmuring to his horse in the barn, she rushed into the dark alley.

The horse threw up his head when she ran in, but the tall, cloaked Ranger easily settled him with a few calming words, then continued adjusting the tack. Poppi waited quietly, abashed that she'd startled the beast.

"I brought your treats," she said softly. He spun around to face her.

"Poppi?"

The sliver of moon slanting in gave enough light that she could see his beard already covering his face. She stepped hesitantly toward him, all her doubts, her fears suddenly rose in her mind. _Would he have ridden on without even speaking to her?_ He took the bag she offered and fastened it to the saddle. Her heart pounded to be so close to him and as he turned back to face her, she knew only that she couldn't let him go without stealing a few moments. _Without having a taste of him._

Looping the reins on a post with a smooth motion he took her lightly in his arms and tenderly, chastely kissed her. She stretched up to slip her arms around him, closing her eyes to savor his touch.  
  
"You should stay long enough for a shave," she murmured before his lips touched hers again.

"Aw, Poppi dearest," he groaned. His tongue teased her lips before he dipped his head to sample the curve of her neck. Sensations coursed through her: the heat of his lips and tongue; the night's chill where he'd touched as he trailed nips and kisses across her. "You know it isn't a shave I want," he whispered between delicate nibbles on the lobe of her ear, deliberately brushing her with the warmth of his breath.

Dizzy with want of him, she leaned into him as his hold tightened about her. His lips returned to hers and she eagerly opened herself to his bold, demanding kiss. With a swift, sure movement he lifted her from the ground, pressing her hard against him and leaving no doubt as to his desire of her.

_“Do not doubt how much you affect me,"_ Tarkil said in his good-bye to her. _"But do not fear me either. I am a man, and I react the way a man would to a beautiful woman’s kiss."_

She'd not felt him turn and step into the stall, only the dangerous, _delicious,_ pressure of him. _When had she wrapped her leg behind him?_ Then the fragrance of clean hay beneath her and his arms loosened to allow her to thrust against him. She cried out with her want of him and he rolled so that she straddled him, his hands on her hips encouraged her movements to match his. _How had her skirt bunched about her waist?_ His leggings strained at the laces to fill the emptiness that came near to consuming her.

"You're too bold," she gasped. "You said... "

_"..do not fear me,_ " echoed in her memory. Then a light kiss.

She trembled to feel his gentle touch, featherlight, on her thighs. "I'm not ready," she whispered, "please, I'm not ready." _Was this the way of promises in the Ranger's land?_

He paused and rolled her back down beside him. _When had he unlaced her bodice?_ Dipping his head, he gently nipped along the top of her breast, she cried out and arched against his hand teasing lightly between her legs. "Poppi dearest," his low voice was husky with need, "you _are_ ready." He lowered his head to take a deep breath of the curve of her neck, his tongue flickered out and his lips drew on her flesh as he released his breath to caress her. He took her hand and guided it to rest on the laces of his leggings. He groaned as she moved her hand, feeling the heat of the hard ridge beneath her fingers.

_"I'd not have been so bold if I'd known,_ " Tarkil had said, _"...do not fear me."_

_Liar!_ "You promised," she whispered, near tears as she moved away from him.

"Oh no, Poppi, don't go."

The sincerity in his voice paused her for a moment and she allowed him to cup her face in his hands when he sat up beside her. She lowered her gaze, unable to stop a few tears. "I didn't mean to tease you," she stammered, "I only wanted to ... to kiss you again. You said that I shouldn't fear you, that you wouldn't ask so much."

He stiffened and took his hand from where he'd rested it, gently holding the back of her neck. He leaned back, slowly stood, then turned away from her. "Lace your bodice," he said in a gruff voice.

Confused, angry, still weak with desire, she stood and did as he said. When her movements stilled, he turned back to her. After a moment of study, he offered his hand, which she took, and allowed him to escort her back to the horse's side.

"Apologies, Lady." He bowed over her hand before he released it. "Indeed, you should have no fear, we are here to serve and protect."

Dismayed at the humor in his voice, she drew back her hand and stepped away. "I don't feel as if I know you anymore," she said quietly. Her anger flared to see his wicked grin.

He smoothly, quickly, stepped close enough to rest his hands on her hips. She stiffened and would have drawn back but he didn't pull her to touch him. "A last kiss then," he said. His hands slipped up, around her back and his lips covered hers with a bold kiss before she could deny him. Poppi wrenched back and slapped him soundly with all her strength.

"Maybe next time," he said with a wink and his familiar grin.

Emotions swirled in her; hurt, anger, confusion. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she watch him mount his horse and ride into the night.

 

* * *

Notes:

In FOTR (The Ring Goes South) Gandalf says : And Aragorn has gone with Elrond’s sons. We shall have to scour the lands all round for many long leagues before any move is made.

Then later: …and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers had searched the lands far down the Greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town.

Thanks again to WindRider for allowing me to play with her Poppi character and giving her a voice.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

Tarkil stood in the middle of the camp surveying the mounds and ruins that surrounded them. Tharbad was a desolate place, he thought, ignoring the activity that buzzed around him as his fellow Rangers packed to leave. But once, it must have been a grand junction for kings and plainfolk too.

As one of the group’s scouts, he had arrived at their destination the day before all the rest, ensuring none of the enemies’ servants waited to attack them, relieved to find the place deserted. He took the opportunity to wander around the ruins, climbing over the great stones that had fallen and lain for a thousand years as moss and grass grew in the cracks that formed over time.

No trace of the Nazgûl had been found, and most Rangers breathed a sigh of relief at not having to face Sauron’s evil, but knew that, at some point, they would return seeking that which they’d lost.

Tarkil climbed to the top of a mound, then stood on a slab, standing as a king of old surveying his territory, as he watched Aragorn embrace Elrond’s sons at the edge of their camp, interested to see them head to the east towards the Misty Mountains that rose far in the distance. Whispers that they had another assignment after this one raced through the camp but everyone knew enough not to ask questions, especially of the half-elven brothers. He stood alone, oblivious to the activity surrounding him as he watched the brothers disappear in the distance.

“They go to deliver messages,” a voice quietly informed him.

Tarkil looked over his shoulder and saw Aragorn standing beside him, surprised as he’d not seen him approach. “My lord!” He bowed his head quickly.

Elladan and Elrohir had disappeared from his sight, yet Aragorn continued to look in their direction. Tarkil wondered if his captain still had enough of the elven blood so he could see greater distances than the other Dúnedain. Finally Aragorn turned away and surveyed the dismantling of the camp, calling out a few words recommending who should carry what burden to what destination.

Most Rangers would accompany Aragorn back to Rivendell, a few others would venture across Tharbad’s dangerous causeway to head up the Greenway for the borders of the Shire to guard it once more. Tarkil had not received his orders and wondered which road he would travel.

“Captain?” he asked, “Which group do I accompany? Do I go back up the Greenway or return with your group to Rivendell?”

“Which path do you wish to take? Where do you feel you are most needed?” Aragorn posed a question of his own.

Tarkil considered this for a moment before replying, “I am needed where there are none to guard. I am needed where the weak require strength.”

Aragorn challenged, “And you can offer them that strength? Can you stop the flow of evil that floods this land?”

The young Ranger frowned, vaguely feeling Aragorn was mocking him, “I am a Ranger, my Captain, I am at your command.”

Aragorn grimaced, “Forgive me, I am grown weary and dread what approaches.” He sighed and looked back out to the east. “We are needed everywhere in this land. And there are so many weak to guard. I fear our forces will be stretched even tighter in the coming months, leaving those in most need of our protection without it. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?" Aragorn paused and considered the younger Ranger in front of him, "Tell me -- when was the last time you were home?”

_Home?_ He would consider sending me home when he talks of such dreadful times ahead? _Have I failed him so miserably?_ He dropped on one knee before Aragorn, bowing his head.

“My lord, I have apologized to Borgil for losing my temper, I have given you my word that I shall maintain the control a Ranger needs. I am sorry if I have offended you in anyway –“ Tarkil stopped as Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Nay, Tarkil, I do not consider sending you home a punishment. Stand up, son.” Aragorn chuckled briefly, then grow somber again, “I merely ask because I have some messages that need to be delivered – and some swords that must be returned to the kin of our fallen. I wonder if you could handle that in my stead.”

“Yes, Captain, I can do that.”

Aragorn nodded, “Good, then you shall return with us – I’ll send a scout ahead a few days before so the swords can be brought out to meet us and you don’t have to go all the way back to Rivendell to collect them.” He ran a hand through his hair, “the swords should have been returned a month ago, but so much has happened, and we’ve been spread so thin, I couldn’t spare the men to do it and I didn’t think it appropriate to send elves into the Angle to inform the kin. But it is a task that can wait no longer. It is not a pleasant task, Tarkil, each person you tell will react differently – there may be much anger vented at you.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve accompanied Angrim on a few occasions when he’s had to deliver the news.” _And wished I could have done it in his place as his method was so blunt and unkind, he thought._

“Good.” Aragorn nodded and turned back to watch the east as Tarkil stepped off the slab and returned to help pack up the camp.

 

  
_“It is hard enough having to tell a grieving widow or parent that their kin has died …”_

Tarkil stopped Nálo just out of sight of the last cottage and sighed as he ran his hands through the horse's mane, wrapping his fingers around it. “That is not something I want to do again anytime soon, boy!” he leaned over and whispered to his horse. “Forever in their minds shall I be remembered to those children as the man who told them their father was dead. It is not an association I wish to have.”

Tarkil knew Aragorn was right about grief being different to each kin, but his words kept coming back at each stop he made. 7 swords he had delivered to their kin – some took the news with stoic silence; others with wails and tears; another with anger – striking out at the bearer of the news; and one – he closed his eyes as he thought of the pain and anguish he felt from the widow at that house … were she an elf, she would die from the depths of her grief, he suspected.

He breathed deeply and stared up at the sky as grey clouds scudded overhead, hinting at snow. It was his last stop and he had planned his route so it would leave him close to his own family’s farm. It had been -- _how long_ had _it been since he’d been there? Six months?_ No, Seven.

He clucked to Nálo and they moved in rhythm down the road, away from the house with the grieving widow and children, though they would never be far from his thoughts in the coming days, he knew.

A few miles more passed beneath them when he came to the brow of the hill overlooking the valley of his family’s farm. Nálo seemed to sense the end of their journey and restlessly stamped when Tarkil pulled up on the reins, but Tarkil enjoyed standing here at the highest ridge in the Angle to see the Hoarwell on one side, and the Loudwater on the other, both gleaming in the distance, and the neat farmhouse of his childhood below. With a grin on his face, he suddenly kicked Nálo and gave him his head and they thundered down the small path arriving at the gate of their house in a cloud of dust. He jumped off his horse and led him to the barn and saw a familiar bear of a figure standing over a forge.

“Mallor!” He ran to his brother and grabbed him in a hug.

“Tarkil!” Large muscular arms wrapped around Tarkil and grabbed him back, lifting him off the ground. “Little brother, it’s been so long! How long can you stay? Are you well? Have you news of Haldon or Valandur?”

Tarkil’s face suddenly fell, “You haven’t heard? You don’t know?”

Mallor stood straight, his face adopting a Ranger’s dour look; it was an old habit he’d never broken. “Which one?”

“Valandur – he was at Sarn Ford when the Nazgûl came through – it was several months ago, Mallor, I thought you would have had word. Angrim didn’t send anyone, didn’t send any note?” Tarkil suddenly felt guilty for not sending a note himself, “Haldon didn’t drop by or send anything either?”

Mallor shook his head and turned back to the forge, lifting a red-hot iron that had been heating in the fire. “No, we’ve heard about the guards at Sarn Ford, but thought Valandur was safe -- last we heard he was guarding the High Pass. When did he get sent to the Ford?” He lifted his hammer and started striking the iron, bending it to shape.

“They pulled him off the Pass a few weeks before, there’d been rumours of an attack at the Ford so they sent extra people to strengthen it. You had no word?”

“None,” Mallor replied gruffly, not pausing from his work. “Where have you been that’s kept you from coming back yourself and telling us?”

That stung -- deeply, “I’m a Ranger, Mallor. I had … I had other duties. I was at Fornost when the attack happened, then after, “he swallowed, then walked over to the stall and started unsaddling Nálo, “after, I was sent to guard the Last Bridge when the Nazgûl went through there,”

Mallor’s pounding hesitated, “You all right?”

“Yes, though my partner was hurt – I left him at Rivendell and was sent with a group to search for the Nine Riders along the Loudwater as far south as Tharbad.”

“Find ‘em?” The hammering resumed at that question.

“No, all we found were their horses; apparently Master Elrond put some sort of enchantment on the water and they were swept downriver, but there’s been no sign of the Riders themselves.”

Tarkil carried his brother’s sword over to Mallor’s workbench. “Angrim, well, Huznat really, gave this to me after Val died. I’ve been carrying it around ever since.”

“Angrim let _Huznat_ give you the news? That lad? What in Eru’s name does that man …” Mallor grunted, then shook his head. “He hasn’t changed at all. I see you’re still wearing Berior. Why haven’t you been using Arathand since you’ve had it – it’s a fine sword, goes back to the fall of Angmar -- made by the elves that was. Hmmph, what am I telling you that for, Father told that tale to you a thousand times I’m sure.”

Tarkil nodded and leaned against the workbench, “I took it out of its scabbard once and swung it, and it feels perfectly balanced. I just … I couldn’t. It’s not my sword. It was grandfather’s, then Father’s, then Valandur’s. And they …”

“And they each died an _untimely_ death? No matter, ‘Kil I understand. Maybe it’s due for a bit of a rest. Perhaps you should have asked the elves in Rivendell to clean it for you, or perhaps there’s something they can do to see if it’s …” Mallor paused, looking up, a twisted grin on his face, “I don’t know. I almost said cursed, but I’ve always said I don’t believe in such things.”

Mallor shoved the iron in the trough, “I shouldn’t have done that. Pounded it too hard – I guess I took my anger out on it. Never a good thing.”

Tarkil grinned, “Yeah, we ‘ _sons of Beleg_ ’ do have a problem with our anger, don’t we?”

“Angrim on you about lack of control again?” Mallor ruffled his brother’s hair then put an arm around his shoulder as they walked out of the barn together. “It’s a favourite refrain of his. And besides it's not anger, it's passion.”

“No, actually it was the Captain.” Tarkil admitted.

“Whoo, Tarkil! Do you choose the wrong people to lose your temper in front of! What did you do that caused him to have to talk to you?” Mallor chuckled.

Tarkil began to tell him of the rumours surrounding some of the Sarn Ford guards and Borgil’s accusations. By the time they arrived on the porch, Mallor's jaw twitched as he growled, “He’s lucky I wasn’t in that group patrolling with you, Borgil wouldn’t have woke up one morning, that’s for sure.”

“Tarkil!” a tall, dark-haired woman came running out of the door and threw her arms around the Ranger, pushing the breath from him with an ‘oomph’. “It’s been so long, we’d nearly given up on you. How long can you stay?"

“Tarkil? Did I hear Elaria correctly?” A tall, blonde haired woman hurried out and smiled from the doorway. “It _is_ you, Tarkil. Welcome home. Have you had anything to eat yet? You must be hungry.”

“Hello, Elaria, Bregwyn. I have two days here before I must return, Elaria and yes, Bregwyn -- I’m starving.”

 

~~

“Did you sleep well, Tarkil? Here, sit down and have some breakfast. Oh! I forgot to give this to you yesterday when you arrived, Gethron brought it by a while back. It’s from Haldon.” Bregwyn reached up on top of a cupboard and retrieved a note that she handed to Tarkil.

“Gethron was here? How was he?” Tarkil anxiously asked of his former partner’s health.

“He seemed healthy enough except for a slight limp. Why?” Bregwyn was automatically suspicious. “He said you were his partner for a while. Did you two get into some tangle with orcs or something?”

“No, it wasn’t a tangle with Orcs, Bregwyn, he got run down by a horse and twisted his leg pretty bad. But if he’s walking already, the elves must have managed to heal it.” Tarkil figured the less his sister-in-law knew, the less she’d fuss and worry. He opened the letter from Haldon:

_Tarkil_

_Great to see you in Rivendell again! Wish we'd had longer together, little brother. Your friend Gethron promised me he'd deliver this for me -- he's a good sort._

_I’m off to deliver messages – yes, me, a messenger! Not exactly what I prefer to do -- would rather be off fighting orcs – or Nazgûl as you’ve had the chance to do._

_By the way, I haven’t had a chance to get home and tell them the bad news and I didn't think it would be proper in a letter. You’ll probably be there before I am so you'd better tell them -- sorry. In the meantime, I’m being sent up to Fornost after I deliver all these orders – something about upsetting all the parents in the villages I’m assigned to patrol. I'm going to see what I can do to get sent down near you if I can._

_May Eru protect you, little brother,_

_Haldon_

_p.s. tell Elaria I didn’t forget her birthday, I still have her present but she’ll have to wait until she sees me._

_Oh, Rats!_ thought Tarkil. I have to remember to give her that bottle of scent. Then he resumed reading:

_p.p.s. Almost forgot to mention, I love the barber service in Bree these days, but I might have caused you a little trouble, so you'll want to avoid the Pony for awhile. It was quite a switch to realize, in the middle of it all, that she thought I was you! I did what I could to salvage the situation without letting her know, hopefully I put in a good showing for you. You owe me one! - although, I'd be happy to have another go with her, I'd love to know how you get such a young maid to come along so enthusiastically._

_p.p.p.s. ... I have to say, little brother, that I'm both impressed and disappointed in your treatment of such a fine girl. For all the engagements I've broken, I've never left a maid longing for me because she's dissatisfied, and I have to say that she seemed to have an awful lot of need when she came to me. However you managed to touch little Poppi's heart, where I've failed this last year, you've done her a great disservice in whatever promise you made to her, she was in tears over it when I left her._

_I expect you to make things right with her, if you can. But I warn you, that next time I'm in the Pony, I won't let her make the same mistake between us. This one's worth keeping promises and if you mistreat her again, I'll be the one to make things right with her.  
H_

Tarkil had to read it twice, his jaw hanging open wider with each reading, with a look of horror in his eyes.

“Something wrong, ‘kil?” Mallor came through the door from the morning chores.

“Daddy!” his youngest daughter squealed and ran for a hug,

He swung her up in his arms, “What are you doing up, isn’t it your bedtime?”

“Daddy, you’re funny! It’s morning.” Ivorwen giggled as her father planted her on the bench across from Tarkil who suddenly bolted from the room, slamming the front door behind him. Husband and wife looked at each other wondering what had been in Haldon’s letter this time.

“I’ve got him, you keep making breakfast.” Mallor kissed Bregwyn and followed his brother.

 

He found Tarkil chopping wood behind the barn, so Mallor leaned against the side of the building and watched his brother work out his anger.

“Arrrggggh” Tarkil finally screamed into the air and threw the axe, jamming its head firmly into a log.

“What’s he done this time?” came Mallor’s quiet question.

“He … he’s …. Arrrggghh I can’t -- I don’t know how to even … “ Tarkil started pacing, unable to form a sentence in his anger and confusion as he pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out accusingly. “She … He …”

Mallor reached out and snagged the letter from Tarkil’s hand then read it, his mouth twisted up, trying to stop from smirking. “Well, that _is_ a switch! He’s been mistaken for you. I can’t remember _that_ happening before. I take it this girl in Bree … “ he pursed his lips while he searched for the right word, “ _meant_ something to you? Have you been seeing her for a while now, ‘kil? Because I can’t say I remember you mentioning a Bree girl before.”

“I’ve been asking her out for, oh, I don’t know, 8 months now? And she’d always turned me down, and the last time I was there, she _finally_ agreed to walk with me. Well, actually we did a bit more than walk, but not much more,” Tarkil frowned. “She … well, she’s pretty innocent, Mallor, and so I was trying to take things … slow … and promised her that I wouldn’t press her to do anything she didn’t want me to do. And she agreed to wait for me to return. And now! Now Haldon has gone and … and she thought he was me … and … they … Arrrrgh”

Mallor re-read at the letter, then looked back at Tarkil, his brow furrowed, “Are you sure she's as innocent as you think? Haldon certainly would have known if he took a maiden and I can’t see that he would have written like this if that had been the case.”

Tarkil snatched back the letter and re-read it then looked up at Mallor, “You’re right. But she cried … she claimed that --“

Mallor saw the hurt on Tarkil’s face, “Tears are often a woman’s way to get you to promise things. Tarkil. I don’t know how they know it, but they all seem to know to use tears, and we always seem to fall for it.” He looked around suddenly fearful, “In Eru’s name, don’t let Bregwyn know I said that! I’ll have no peace for a month.”

“Oh, Mallor, there was something about this girl. I don’t know what it was, it was her … eyes and her … hair. And the way she smelled even. And she fit so perfectly in my arms. I mean, she’s a short little thing compared to Elaria or Bregwyn, but she just fit! Do you know what I mean?”

“Oh, sweet Yavanna, you’re in love with her!” Mallor whistled. “You’ve gone and fallen in love -- and with a Bree girl to boot!

Tarkil looked at him in panic, “Love? I never said I was in love!”

“You just did! ‘There’s something about her hair, and her eyes and she just fits me.’ “ Mallor snorted, “You’re in love with her, little brother.”

Tarkil stood staring at his brother, suddenly confused. _Love? No, I don’t love her. Do I?_ He remembered her looking at him in the store, batting those eyes at him, and how he felt warmth flood through him, stirring him, when they did. He remembered those beautiful hazel eyes, brimming with tears, and how his heart broke to know he’d caused them. _Was that love?_ Then her words from the picnic came to him.

_I’ve not been married, she'd said._ But then he remembered how she'd pressed herself against him, and returned his kisses ...NO! “She was playing me that whole time. That wench just wanted a ring on her finger, or more coins for her treats! I bought her whole innocent act, she batted her eyes and wrapped me around her little finger, and I fell for it! What a fool I’ve been!”

Tarkil crumpled up the letter and threw it at the side of the barn, “What was I thinking? She’s a barmaid! From Bree!”

Mallor leaned down to pick up the letter, then suggested, “Come on, little brother, let’s get some breakfast in you. It’s too early for such upsets. A body can’t think on an empty stomach.”

Tarkil walked beside his brother who put a large arm on his shoulder as he said, “Now what’s this bit about leaving her dissatisfied? After all those visits to Mistress Lathwen’s, don't you know how to please a woman? Oh, and don’t tell Bregwyn about that place either! Even though I haven't been there since before we were married, she'd never believe me and I’ll have no peace for a year!”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

A thick blanket of snow muffled Nálo’s hooves as Tarkil and his horse trotted down the path behind Southlinch. Soft puffs of mist hung in the air from Nálo’s muzzle, the air chill but not uncomfortably so, though Tarkil knew it would soon drop as the night fell. The quiet beauty of the fields, the undulations of the ploughs that scarred the earth smoothed by a white blanket, comforted Tarkil. He felt the land was being cleansed then lulled into a deep slumber for the winter.

He slowed his horse when he approached the small shelter deep in the forest behind the village, ducking his head under an overhanging bough as they left the path and entered the woods. Tarkil had settled into a quiet routine, patrolling the area, visiting the farmers, warning them of the increasing thefts and trouble the southerners seem to bring with them. There were so few rangers left to patrol anymore, so many of them pulled to guard Rivendell and areas to the east, especially after the Nazgûl attack at the ford over the Bruinen.

Farmers and merchants both grumbled as they told of southerners who came with ready coin and bought whole crops, rather than a barrel or two, then sent the pipe weed south. The locals jealously guarded their small hoards when they realized how little was left for their own consumption. The news of the Greenbanks’ murders had spread like wildfire; Aragorn said there had been reports of other thefts, though none as brutal Tarkil had been relieved to hear at the time, but the farmers who had their crops stolen faced a bleak winter living off their meager reserves. Many times as he rode towards a farm, he found himself greeted by a pitchfork first before the farmer sought his name and business.

 

His horse unsaddled, he grabbed the brush, quietly talking to his only companion as he wiped off the traces of snow that had fallen from the overhead branches. “We’ve been to nearly every farm in the area now, boy, just a few more farms to visit down that old Andrath road. And each farmer is more nervous than the last, more wary. That’s a good thing I suppose, isn’t it?”

He chuckled as he realized he almost expected an answer from his horse at the question. He sighed and fastened a blanket over the horse against the night’s chill, then scratched his ears and ran a hand down Nálo’s neck. “Happy Yule, Nálo. For today is the end of the year, not that it means anything to you. Let’s hope the new year sees an easier time for us both.” The horse swung his head and nuzzled at the Ranger as if agreeing with his sentiments. “Sorry, boy, I forgot your treat, I’ll bring it to you later.” Running his hand down the stallion’s blaze in farewell, he shut the door to the small barn beside his own shelter then pulled out his pipe and filled it with the last of his own weed.

The twilight had changed to full night as he cared for his horse, though the night didn’t seem so dark now the bright snow covered the ground. Lights from the distant village reflected off the white blanket; no sound could be heard save for the occasional quiet thump as a branch grew too laden and its cold burden fell.

Plumes of smoke from his pipe mixed with his own frozen breath as he stood in the darkness, enjoying the solitude after the turmoil of emotions of the previous months.

~~

She’d gone, fled, he found on his brief stop in Bree. Butterbur said she’d left a few weeks before, just after his brother’s brief encounter with her Tarkil presumed. He’d still not decided if not seeing her was a good thing or bad. Hours of discussion with Mallor and Bregwyn left him just as confused as when he’d first read the letter from Haldon. That letter sat tucked away, pulled out every now and then, as he tried to find some hidden message, some hope that perhaps … He remembered she said she came from this area and he found that as he went around on his patrols, he looked in every farmer’s house and field, in every shop in the village, hoping to see her, yet wondered why he did and what he’d say to her if he did.

“If you say this Poppi is innocent, she may still be. You’re a good judge of character, ‘Kil. Don't put such stock in this letter -- I know you think Haldon can seduce anyone, but I don't think he can. This Poppi may have initially mistaken him for you but you can’t trust that they ... did what you’re accusing them of.” Bregwyn blushed. “You only have this note and he never really says that they lay together.” She finished in a rush as she blushed a deeper shade of red.

Tarkil noticed Mallor’s small frown of disagreement, though he knew his brother wouldn’t voice his differing opinion to his wife.

Still he’d held onto the hope that perhaps Bregwyn was right, that Poppi might allow him to see her, at least to explain the confusion. But when Butterbur said she’d fled from the Pony, he knew Haldon hadn’t exaggerated and his misgivings and fears settled heavy about his heart.

A nagging thought rose once more in the back of his mind, as he stood puffing his pipe in the quiet woods. _Did she carry Haldon’s babe?_ Is that why she’d run from the Pony, not because she felt betrayed by him, but because she was with child? She would claim to her kin that Tarkil was the father of her babe, not knowing he was really its uncle.

His own words came back to haunt him, “She was playing me that whole time. That wench just wanted a ring on her finger.” Is that what the picnic was all about? Is that what she’d intended all along, to bed him, to trap him, to find herself a husband to take her away from Bree? _But then why did she push me away that afternoon?_ Did she really get scared – is that why she cried? Then when she saw Haldon and thought he was me, she jumped at the second chance to ensnare me in her plans? Or was Bregwyn right -- was he over-thinking everything as he usually did?

His sigh created a thick cloud that hung heavy in the air as Tarkil entered his small shelter, seeking distraction from the path his thoughts took.

~ ~

The sun's rays reflected off the melting snow, dazzling Tarkil, though patches of mud already showed through the old Andrath road.

The path wound along the old Downs, away from the Greenway. No one had been down the road today, he could tell, but that wasn’t surprising given that it was the Yule. He passed an abandoned farmhouse, long unused, its windows shuttered and barred, the roof of the barn behind caved in, the fields fallow.

The old house fell out of view behind him as the path curved around a hill, then serpentined back once more.

He finally cleared the path between the two hills and came to the edge of the first farm nestled at the foot of the hill, then pulled Nálo to a quick halt as he sucked in his breath. “Not again!” he breathed, and headed Nálo down the path towards the farmhouse’s burned-out shell.

Curses filled the air as he found his fears confirmed – he faced a repeat of the fire at the Greenbanks’ farm; from the looks of it, the attack had happened the night before the snowfall. The neighbouring hill left the farm bathed in shadow, the snow unmelted, still covering the ground hiding any tracks the murderers may have left, though he hoped some trace would remain for him to find later.

Tarkil saw movement at the top of the hill, so leaving Nálo by the farmhouse, he quietly climbed up the hill grasping at branches and bracken as he slipped and slid in the snow and mud. The crown of the hill was drier, allowing him to move without sound through the thick-boled trees. A soft sound drifted through the woods, the sound of sniffling.

It came from a small wooden structure beneath a giant pine tree –- not large enough for an adult to stand up in, a small door swinging shut. He unsheathed his sword and pulled open the door in one movement to find a small boy, no more than eight, huddled on a bench, a well used quilt wrapped about him. The child squeaked in surprise and pressed himself into the corner of the shack, “Please don’t hurt me! I won’t tell what you did! Honest!”

Tarkil sat on his haunches at the doorway, speaking softly to the boy, careful not to scare him further. “I won’t harm you, son, I want to help. I’m a Ranger and we don’t go around hurting children. Do you live in the farmhouse below?”

The boy swiped his arm across his face. “I can’t find my mum or dad.” The tears continued to flow then Tarkil realized his eyes were fixed on his sword so he stood slowly and sheathed his weapon. “What’s your name, son?”

“Roddy,” Roddy’s teeth chattered and he shivered despite the quilt.

“You been out here all night, Roddy?” When the lad nodded, Tarkil told him, “Come out of there, lad, let’s get you someplace warm.”

“No, I’m going to stay here until my mum and dad come and get me.”

Tarkil sighed. “I give you my word, I won’t hurt you. It’s too cold for you to stay out here by yourself.” He noticed the small bare feet and nightclothes the boy had on beneath the ratty quilt. Yet the lad still shook his head and refused to budge. Tarkil crawled in through the doorway and held out a hand to snag the boy’s pajamas, pulling the lad towards him.

Roddy struggled to pull away from the Ranger. “L-l-let me g-g-g-go!” He flailed his arms wildly at Tarkil who hugged him closer, shushing him.

“Calm down, son. I’ve said twice now, I’m not here to harm you but to help. You’re freezing cold.” Tarkil crawled out of the shack and stood outside, the boy still in his arms.

“I’m going to put you down for a second, but I want you to promise me you won’t try to run. I’m going to take you some place where you can get warm and be safe. I promise, all right?”

The boy nodded warily, so Tarkil put him gently on the ground then reached out to grab the collar of his pajamas as he tried to flee once more. “Now stop that,” he growled. “I just want to get you warm, you’ll catch a death of cold otherwise.” With one hand still firmly on the boy’s shoulder, he unclasped his cloak and flung it about the boy’s thin shoulders, then lifted him up again and clamped his arms around the squirming boy, rubbing the child’s legs briskly to warm them. “See, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to warm you up. Now, is that your home down there?”

The struggle subsided and the boy’s tear-streaked face looked at him, nodding slowly, “Some men came last evening and set it on fire. I jumped out of my window and they chased me for a little ways. They laughed and said I was too little to worry about. I came up here to my hideout my pa built for me and watched them. But I didn’t see my ma or pa get out.” He started sobbing again, “I think they didn’t get out of the house, and they burned!”

There wasn’t much he could say, the boy had the right of it Tarkil guessed. “Are there more farms around here? Some neighbours nearby?”

The boy couldn’t speak through his sobs, but his finger pointed down the road. “Let’s see if they can get you some warm clothes then.”

 

 

A mile or so further down the winding road, a neat farmhouse came into sight; Tarkil breathed a sigh of relief to see it untouched. He set Nálo down the small path that led between the house and the barn, calling out as he approached. A stocky farmer appeared at the door, axe in hand, scowling as he called in reply. “What you doing back here? I told you already -- we don’t have any pipeweed left to sell so you can clear off right now! It’s the Yule, leave us in peace.”

“And good Yule to you, sir, I do not mean to interrupt your celebrations, but this lad needs your help.” Tarkil dismounted, holding the shivering child in his arms. He turned to the farmer, but didn’t approach not wishing to antagonize him into using the axe. “I’m a ranger and I found this boy up in the hills – his home burnt down during the night and he’s spent the night in the cold. Could you spare him some clothes and possibly a hot meal?”

“That’s Garth’s boy! Sarah, get out here.” A young woman, a toddler squirming in her arms, came to the door as her husband took the youngster and bounded up the stairs towards her. “Look it’s Roddy! This Ranger here says he found him wandering in the woods and that Garth’s farm has burnt down.”

Tarkil found himself standing alone in the yard, rubbing his arms and stamping to stay warm as his cloak was now in the house with the boy. “Well, come on in then, what are you standing out there for, you fool.” The farmer stuck his head out the door and grinned at Tarkil. “Come have some tea and warm yourself up. Sarah’s heating some soup for the boy, you can have some too.”

The farmer’s wife turned from the woodstove, shyly smiling, as Tarkil entered the house, then she went into a backroom with the boy to change him out of his wet clothes.

“I’m Bregon Appledore, by the way,” Bregon held out his hand, exchanging a quick but firm handshake with Tarkil, then he gestured over his shoulder to the back room, “and that’s my wife Sarah, and this little one is our firstborn, Calder.” The proud father smiled fondly as he ruffled the curly head of the toddler who hid behind his father, clinging to his father’s pant legs as he stared solemnly up at Tarkil.

“I’m Tarkil, son of Beleg. Thank you so much for inviting me into your home, Bregon. From the way you greeted me, I take it you’ve had people bothering you, asking for pipeweed?”

Bregon nodded, then sat down in a chair by the fire, pulling the toddler into his lap, telling the Ranger of the many attempts to buy up the weed, first friendly then threatening. It was the same story he’d heard around the area.

A few minutes later, Sarah lead the lad out and sat him at the table; then took Tarkil’s cloak and spread it over a chair by the fire to dry.

Roddy now wore a very baggy shirt and trousers – obviously hastily grabbed from her husband’s trove. The farmer chuckled, “It’s going to be a few years before you grow into that shirt and pants, Rod!”

“It’s all I had to put on him, Bregon, it’ll be a few years before Calder is his size.” Sarah reminded her husband.

Bregon went over and rolled up the cuffs so they didn’t hang down past Roddy's hands, then grabbed a woollen blanket off the back of his chair, and wrapped it around the boy. “Feel warmer now, son?” The boy nodded; Bregon pulled up a chair at the table and gestured for Tarkil to join him.

“Is it true what Roddy said about those men burning down his house? Is it burnt down to the ground?” Sarah worried as she ladled the soup into bowls, giving one to each of the men at her table.

Tarkil wrapped his hands around the steaming bowl, warming them before digging in, then nodded, not wanting to talk in too much detail in front of the boy, “Yes, I’m afraid it is. It’s not the first time it’s happened in the area, either. That’s why I came down the road today, to warn people to be careful.” He grimaced, “I’m afraid I’m a day too late.”

“I’ve been telling him about those southerners that have been coming around here after our weed, Sarah.” Bregon said gruffly, “I’d figured they might think they could get away with it against a hobbit farmer like the Greenbanks, but now they’ve hit us ‘big-folk’ as well.” He frowned and glanced at his wife, “I think I’m right in keeping that axe at the door, as much as you complain about it.”

“I’ll be glad when those awful men have gone back south,” she declared, “they frighten me with their strange talk and frightening looks. Pop thinks so too, they’ve been after his pipe weed. He ran them off a few weeks back, do you remember me telling you, Bregon? Do you think it’s them that took it?”

“Most likely. Oh, Sarah, I’m forgetting myself, why didn’t you remind me.” Bregon hitched a thumb towards Tarkil introducing him to his wife, “Sarah, this here is Tarkil. He says he’s going to be patrolling this area for a while – check in on us from time to time. So if I’m not here, you don’t have to worry if you see him go by.”

Tarkil thought Sarah gave him a strange look as she collected the plates and put a fresh pot of tea on the table then asked, “Tarkil – is that a common name amongst your people?”

“Actually, no," he admitted. “It's been a family tradition to name their firstborn son Tarkil after an ancient relative. My grandparents decided that since other creatures use the term 'tark' to describe our people, they felt it was time to change the tradition. My father, however, disagreed and finally convinced my mother to allow him to name me after my grandfather though it took four previous sons before he won her over." He sighed, "Unfortunately, he found my grandparents were right -- the children in my village used my name more as a taunt.” He shrugged, “I guess my father preferred to think that people remember the old king, but no, not many people are given it these days. Why?”

She lifted the boiling kettle and filled a sink as she prepared to do the dishes, then spoke over her shoulder, “Nothing, I just thought I’d heard of someone else by that name, ‘tis all. I must have misheard.”

Tarkil thought he heard an edge in her voice as she spoke. _I'm Poppi Rushlight -- of Southlinch_ she'd said, could it be that Sarah knew her and Poppi had mentioned his name? Worried now, the Ranger turned back to Bregon, “I’m going to come back when this snow has a chance to melt, to see if there are any tracks left that I can follow. I’ll drop by to make sure everything is secure then.”

When they’d finished the tea, Tarkil rose, thanking his hosts for their help. He paused at the door as he fastened his cloak, “Are there any other farms along this path, Bregon? I wanted to go around and warn any others in the area, and now that we know that they’re bold enough to go after a house so close to others…”

“Well, there’s my folks a few miles down -- but they’re away visiting my sister up in Chetwood, she's due to have her first soon. So I don’t think you need to worry about them. Besides they don’t grow pipeweed…so I can’t see that them murderers would bother that place. And then there’s Sarah’s folks, they’re the next farm down – it’s just past the next big bend in the road, won’t take you long to get there if you want to talk to them.”

“We’re going over to visit my folks shortly for the Yule celebrations, you don’t need to worry about telling them, Bregon and I can do that!” Sarah interrupted her husband.

Tarkil frowned, “You need to make sure they understand how serious this situation is becoming. Let them know to be cautious of all strangers and keep themselves safe – especially if they grow leaf.”

“Oh, Bregon will make sure they listen, and my dad is cautious by nature, it’s all right, Tarkil. You don’t have to worry about that. You can head back into Southlinch before it gets much later, they have some nice Yule celebrations going on through the day, you don’t want to miss those.” She grabbed his arm and led him to the door, “You take care now on your way back.”

“Well, thank you again, Bregon. Sarah, thank you for the delicious soup.” Tarkil gave a small bow in her direction as she blushed, lowering her eyes. His breath caught as she briefly reminded him of Poppi. _No_ , he thought, _I'm just seeing things that aren't there, that's all._

Tarkil held out his hand and shook Bregon’s hands in farewell, then turned to the farmer’s wife, “Good bye, Sarah, it was nice to meet you, and thank you very much for the soup and the tea.”

She murmured a response, as Tarkil stepped through the doorway onto the porch, Bregon following, with a glance over his shoulder. “Hmph, don’t know what got into her! Anyway, stop by if you get a chance, Tarkil. We’ll be out tonight and tomorrow though, visiting people for the Yule. Are you sure you won’t stay for dinner?”

“No, Bregon,” Tarkil smiled as he pulled on his gloves, “I’ve taken enough time, besides I want to continue down the road and take a look for myself what’s down it.”

“Suit yourself then,” Bregon shivered and returned to the warmth of the house as Tarkil unhitched Nálo and rode off.

~ ~ ~

Notes

Southlinch and Pipeweed:

ROTK (Homeward Bound) “When he came back he brought them enough to last them for a day or two, a wad of uncut leaf. "Southlinch," he (Butterbur) said, "and the best we have; but not the match of Southfarthing, as I've always said though I'm all for Bree in most matters, begging your pardon."

I could find no mention/location of Southlinch anywhere else, and thanks to Barbara, one of the research gurus at HASA (Henneth Annun Story Archives) who confirmed that Southlinch was in the Bree area, I chose to put it along the Greenway, but just south of Bree, figuring most villages would have been situated along such roads in order to transport their goods to other markets. The Andrath Road is my own creation, although Andrath is mentioned in Unfinished tales and also in Karen Wynn Fostad’s Atlas of Middle Earth – showing it just south of Bree where the Greenway breeches the South Down and the barrows.

I'm also speculating that although only hobbits grew pipeweed in the Shire, since the Bree area is made up of both big- and little-folk, farmers of both type would grow pipeweed.

Snow in Bree:

ROTK (Homeward Bound) Butterbur says “…and the fight was early in the New Year, after the heavy snow we had.” In Karen Wynn Fostad’s Atlas of Middle Earth (Climate) she shows in a map that although parts of the shire would more likely have mild winters and mild summers, Bree (and hence Southlinch) appear to be on the dividing line between the two areas, so they might not be as warm as the Shire and that area might have cold winters and mild summers. And since Butterbur mentions the heavy snow, I felt free to use it.

Organization of the Rangers: I used an article by Michael Martinez “Of Thegns and Kings and Rangers and things” as a guide to how Rangers might be arranged. http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/64660 I speculated that a Ranger might be set on a specific patrol in a semi-military manner. I also took the liberty of putting Tarkil on horseback – an easier way to guard a country rather than by walking alone, though this would depend upon the territory and what type of threat they faced. Especially, if as Mr. Martinez conjectures, they would be guarding the main roads such as the Greenway. A ranger on foot wouldn’t stand much of a chance pursuing a thief who most likely would be heading pell-mell down a road on a horse or a wagon.

As for the various shacks I describe them as staying in: I grew up in central Ontario and there are often small hunting shacks built by various hunters and trappers to stay in during the hunting or trapping season. I understand that in Texas they are referred to as line shacks. I could see that similar buildings might be erected by other hunters in times such as these, or even the Rangers themselves especially considering they had been protecting the land for so many thousands of years. They would be small, rickety most likely but keep out the cold, perhaps some would even be equipped with a potbellied stove. (A single tea candle can keep a car at 50 degrees F.) So although I can’t see that a Ranger would necessarily return to this building each night in summer, I can conjecture that they might strive to return to it during a cold winter’s night such as is described in this chapter, or given the size of their patrol area, there may be several of these small shelters dotted across the land and they’d journey from one to the next, especially in the northern areas such as Fornost or the Ettenmoors.

A similar principle has been used for Chapter 2, 3 and 13 – the Rangers as I see them would probably head to a central location to report in or pick up supplies where a more senior Ranger would be in charge of them.

~ ~

Yes, the first scene is an homage to the Robert Frost poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" which inspired my title.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

Tarkil cursed the storm’s sudden onslaught as the wind howled, blowing the snow into heavy drifts that Nálo struggled to breach. He’d seen the threatening clouds in the distance at noon, but hadn’t reckoned on their speed and now he was caught miles from his shelter in the worst blizzard in years. He pulled his cloak about him with frozen hands despite his fur-lined gloves. His feet felt like blocks of ice stuck in the stirrups, his beard and moustache crusted with tiny icicles that grew each time he breathed out.

He braced himself against the biting wind, cursing the cold and the snow and the storm but mostly cursing his own folly in ignoring his instinct and venturing out so far despite the ominous clouds. It was his third trip this week along this desolate road. The second time he’d returned, he visited the burned-out shell of the farmhouse of Roddy’s family, finding the trip yielded little in ways of identifying the murderers. The snow and its melt had done little to help preserve any tracks the thugs left, though he did find a few in by the barn though found nothing new to point his way to finding the answers he sought.

The wind whipped around then suddenly stilled and in the momentary clearing, he finally saw he was nearing Bregon’s and Sarah’s farm house – he hoped they were home and could offer him shelter for he knew neither his horse nor himself could last much longer in the bitter cold.

He nudged Nálo off the path, and onto the their land, following the path of a drift, rather than having to cut through it, calling, but having the wind whip his call back into his throat rather than carry it across to the house. He gulped as it took his breath from him, then jumped off his horse as they came into the shelter of the barn.

Bregon had thought ahead, Tarkil saw; the farmer knew how easy it would be to get lost between house and barn in the white swirl so had strung a thick rope between the two points to act as a handhold as well a path to safety at each end.

He grabbed hold of the barn door and tried to swing it open, but the wind caught it and he struggled briefly then felt the door swing open without resistance, and he stared down at an axe.

“Tarkil!” Bregon yelled, then laughed and set down the axe. He pulled the frozen Ranger and his horse out of the blizzard. “You gave me a fright, you did! What are you doing out this way on a day such as this, you should have stayed closer to home.”

“Ssssstarted out b-b-before the storm hit!” Tarkil managed to stutter. “Got c-c-ccaught.” He swiped at his horse with his frostbitten hands trying to remove the thick coat of snow that covered him.

“Poor horse!” Gethron reproached the Ranger, “taking him out on a day like this. Serve you right if he bucks you off next time you try to ride him.” He watched as Tarkil tried to remove the tack from his stallion. “You’re frozen stiff, man! Here, let me take his tack off and look after him, doesn’t look like your fingers are working too well right now. We’ve got an extra bed in the house I’ll have Sarah fix up for you – you’re going to stay with us tonight. I’ll not have you say we were bad hosts and sent you back out in that storm.”

Tarkil watched Bregon take care of his horse, feeling guilty as it was something he had always done himself, insisted on, as he had been trained to do from a young lad. But his new friend was right, he shouldn’t have tried to come so far and ignored the weather, and now he would pay for it when the feeling began to return to his fingers and toes with a fierce burning as the warm blood finally coursed through them.

“I still have to milk the cow and do the rest of my chores, you go into the house. Sarah’ll set you up with a hot drink and you can sit by the fire inside. We’ll have a full house tonight because her sister’s come for a visit and got stuck by the storm too. Still, always better to be surrounded by your friends and family than wonder whether they’re safe on a night like tonight.” Bregon rattled on, sounding pleased to have a man’s company for the evening rather than being surrounded by women all night.

Tarkil pulled his gloves back on, threw the hood of his cloak deep about his face then taking a deep breath, he opened the barn door and grabbed the rope. He hauled himself along it, pushing aside the great drifts that had formed even since he’d arrived. He stomped his feet on the porch to remove the snow that clung to his boots and pants, then opened the door calling to Sarah. And stopped.

For standing in front of him was not Sarah, but Poppi.

 

 

Wind and snow whistled through the open door as he stood there, staring. _Poppi, she was here!_

Sarah hurried over to slam the door shut behind him, then she anxiously laughed as her hands wrung her apron, “Tarkil. I – we weren’t expecting you.”

Tarkil stared as she went to stand beside Poppi. Her sister. _How could he have been so blind – Sarah had the same eyes as Poppi, they were the same height, the same build – how had he not seen all that?_ At the picnic, Poppi told him she had a sister with a babe who was only a few months old when she’d left for Bree. Was that Calder? It must be.

_“Poppi of Southlinch”_ And the farmhouse down the road – Sarah’s family? Poppi had been there that whole time? Within his reach? _Now what should he do? What should he say? Should he explain it was Haldon that night in the stables? Or would that embarrass her to have made such a mistake – did she know already, did she care? Should he pretend that it was him and apologize? Did she WANT an apology? And did it matter now?_ How many times had this scenario rolled through his mind and now all his plans disappeared leaving his mind a total blank.

And then those insidious thoughts started creeping back in. She slept with Haldon and then she fled Bree … _why would she have done that_ … left her job and returned home -- unless … _she carried a child!_ He glanced down, unable to see if she was showing yet then realized it would still be too soon. He looked back up at her face, remembering the hurt and the betrayal he felt at reading his brother’s letter about how she’d _“come along so enthusiastically”._

Then anger set in. He felt his jaw clench and his brow lower then managed to wrench his gaze away from Poppi.

“Sarah,” he nodded to the farmer’s wife, deciding to ignore the whole situation. “Bregon said he will be in shortly when he’s finished tending the cows.”

She glanced between Poppi and Tarkil, nervously gesturing for them both to sit down, “Would you like some tea? Anyone? Perhaps a slice of bread pudding? There’s some left over from last night’s supper.”

“Some tea, please, it’s bitterly cold out.” Tarkil tried his hardest to be polite to his hostess despite her relationship with this wench.

“Why don’t you take your cloak off and stand by the fire, you look frozen,” she suggested, then shrugged as Poppi glared at her.

“Thank you, Sarah, I think I shall.” He made a show of taking off his cloak and stood warming himself by the fire, his back to the room, “Bregon invited me to stay here tonight, Sarah -- said you would have an extra room.” _Humph, probably be warmer in the barn than in the house with that cold-hearted wench._

Calder toddled over to Tarkil, staring up at him with wide brown eyes, his thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. Tarkil couldn’t help but smile at the curly headed moppet so he squatted down. “Hello, little fellow,” then laughed as the lad went cross-eyed when Tarkil touched a finger to the boy’s nose.

Poppi came over and snatched Calder away, “It’s time for his nap!” she told him loftily.

“Hmph, you start taking them to bed young,” he whispered only half to himself.

She whirled around with a gasp, “What was that? What did you say?”

“Tea’s ready!” Sarah called in an almost hysterical tone. “Come, Poppi, here’s your tea, just how you like it. And Tarkil, yours is here too.”

The door burst open and Bregon trudged through, tracking snow over the floor, “Well, that’s done then, the animals are all set for the night. Ah, Tarkil, good, you’ve met Poppi.” He smiled broadly at the two and clapped his hands together as he stepped in front of the fire, “Isn’t this cozy – the four of us together tonight? We’ll have a nice roaring fire and stay warm. Here, Sarah, don’t we have a bottle of that nice brandy still tucked away from our wedding? Let’s break it out tonight after dinner, shall we?”

He took Calder out of Poppi’s arms, “Did you have a nice nap, Calder my lad? Look at you all spiffied up in your best bib and tucker; did Auntie Poppi dress you like that when she got you up?”

Tarkil raised a brow, “Auntie Poppi just got Calder _up_ from his nap, did she?” _You said you had to put him down for a nap! Liar!_

“Tarkil, here is your tea. Dinner will be a while yet, why don’t we all sit down?” Sarah handed him his cup and saucer, standing between Poppi and him, as she traded a glare with her sister.

The next few hours passed interminably slow for Tarkil; Bregon and Sarah tried hard to keep a conversation going, but Poppi and Tarkil kept their answers short, making light-hearted banter difficult for the two hosts. Dinner passed in an equally tense manner as Tarkil and Poppi found themselves seated opposite each other. At one point, they both reached for the same dish and grabbed their hands back when they momentarily touched. _Keep your temper, keep calm, remember you promised the captain; a Ranger maintains control of his emotions at all times._

“So, Tarkil, do you get snow like this where you live? Where do the Ranger’s come from, by the way?” Sarah hesitantly ventured, hoping she was on safe ground with the question.

“Yes, we get snow though I haven’t seen a storm like this in many years, though I have seen it worse up at Fornost. And my family lives in the Angle, between the Hoarwell and Loudwater Rivers,” he pushed his plate away and stirred some honey into his tea. “The dinner was delicious tonight, Sarah, I really enjoyed that. Thank you.”

“I could tell. You ate almost as much as a hobbit.” she smiled. “You said your family lives in the Angle, tell us more about it, I’ve never heard much about your people.”

Tarkil paused and considered her question, “Well, what do you want to know, perhaps if you ask it would be easier for me to tell you.”

“Well, your family I suppose, do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“I have two brothers left now, both elder brothers, I’m the youngest son, and I have a younger sister, Elaria.”

“Tell me about your brothers then, are they rangers?” she coaxed, desperate to break the tense quiet of the house.

“My eldest brother is Mallor, he’s 12 years older than me. He used to be a Ranger but now he’s a blacksmith and looks after our family’s farm as well. And then there is Haldon, who is 6 years older than me. He’s a ranger also. They say he looks a lot like me, or I look a lot like him, though I don’t think there’s _that_ much of a similarity.” He threw a glance at Poppi, hoping to see a reaction, “But I’m often called Haldon and he Tarkil so I suppose people do confuse us a lot.” She didn’t react he was disappointed to see but kept her eyes downcast as she toyed with her food.

Sarah continued to ask questions about the life of a Ranger and life in the Angle, Bregon threw the odd question in as well, but Poppi stayed quiet.

And during it all Tarkil realized his anger had waned and it suddenly became very important to see those hazel eyes look up into his again.

“… too often then, do you Tarkil?” penetrated his consciousness and he realized Bregon had asked him a question.

“I’m sorry, Bregon, I drifted there for a second, what was it you asked?” he frowned as he forced his own eyes off of Poppi to look at her brother-in-law.

“I said that you mustn’t get a good home-cooked meal like my Sarah just made too often then,” Bregon shared a glance with his wife.

“No it isn’t often,” Tarkil said quietly, his eyes returning to Poppi’s bowed head. “It’s been a few weeks since the last time I was home and before that I was away for nearly 7 months.”

Bregon pushed his own chair away and stood to stretch as Sarah cleared the table. “Poppi, are you done with your dinner? You’ve hardly eaten a thing. Aren’t you feeling well, dear?”

_Sweet Eru, she’s not feeling well – well, there’s the proof. Don’t women often feel sick in the first months they carry a child?_

Tarkil stood suddenly, “Poppi, could I speak with you please?”

Her eyes flashed at him finally, “There’s nothing to be said!” _Was that anger in her eyes?_

He took a deep breath then exhaled, “I think there is much to be said. But in private, please Poppi?” He kept his voice gentle.

“Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of my family!” she informed him.

He felt his jaw clench. _Patience, remember to breath…_ He noticed Bregon give Sarah a confused look as she lifted Calder into her arms. “I think Calder needs to be changed…Bregon perhaps you could help me?” She started to leave but Poppi ran after her and grabbed her arm, pleading “No, please, Sarah, don’t leave.”

_She’s afraid to be alone with me?_ “Poppi, please just a few minutes, but in private, I won’t harm you if that’s what you’re afraid of. I give you my word.”

“Your word!” she lashed out. “Your word? You promised you wouldn’t be so bold! That you wouldn’t ask so much until I was ready! And still you ..you….” Tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked.

_Oh, Haldon what did you do? You didn’t force her. You wouldn’t. Did you trick her?_

“I’ve not broken my word to you, Poppi, ” he said gently, but his mind was whirling -- _How could I say what I need to with Bregon and Sarah here? I can hardly tell them you slept with my brother, you stubborn woman! I’m willing to make sure that you’re cared for and loved though you carry another man’s child -- even if it is my brother’s! And you won’t let me even talk to you? … ‘Loved?’ Do I love her after such a short time?_ He shook his head and plunged in, “And since you seem to wish to air such matters in front of your family, then I shall respect your wishes. I wanted to tell you that I wished to continue seeing you -- in spite of your condition.”

Both Poppi and Sarah gasped at his statement, while Bregon’s head swiveled round to stare at his sister-in-law, his mouth slack in amazement.

“In spite of my ‘condition’? You blackguard! Only my husband will appreciate my condition -- on my wedding night!” her voice rose in anger as Calder started to cry from the upset. “Which means it will never be your concern! Are your people so low that being ‘in my condition’ is a problem? And what do you know of my ‘condition’ anyway?”

“Aren’t you forgetting that night in the stables?” he snarled. “And yes, your condition does cause me concern, I’d like to know that I raise my own children, not another’s.”

Her open hand hit him hard but when it flew again he caught her wrist, pulling her to him, trapping her hands against his chest. The heat of her body warmed his once again, and despite his anger, he felt himself stirring. Feeling betrayed by his own desires, he snapped, “I gave you my word, and I kept it. I offered to care for you despite what you’ve done and you strike me. I will not spend another night under the same roof as you.” He released her and she stepped back, eyes wide, as he grabbed his cloak then stalked to the door, “If I’d known you preferred the stables to a hilltop, I wouldn’t have wasted all that coin on a picnic and soft beds at the Pony! Oh! And by the way – my sister didn’t like the scent you chose!” The door slammed shut behind him.

 

 

The wind howled through the open barn door as Tarkil tugged to close it, to find Bregon’s hands pulling it open once more, “You don’t need to worry about me, Bregon, I’m leaving! I’ll not stand for being attacked by that … woman again.”

“You’re not leaving me to those two! Do you want to tell me just what that was all about? How do you know Poppi? Are you two in love?”

Tarkil snorted, “I met her at the Pony, Bregon, she waited on me a few times. One night there was some trouble with a patron and I helped her out and then accompanied her on some errands for a week. And we went on a picnic. Once. That’s all. I asked her if I could see her again, and she said I could. But then I got posted east and I haven’t seen her again. As for love,” Tarkil shook his head but wondered again what it was he felt for Poppi, “it’s a little early to say. I was interested in seeing her again, yes, but then … the situation has changed somewhat.”

Bregon paced the barn as he listened to Tarkil, then stopped by the door and asked suspiciously, “You said that she was with child. Is it yours?”

He wanted to say “ask Poppi” but he knew that the truth wouldn’t be found there. She thought he’d taken advantage of her; that it was his child she carried. If it was his child, he wouldn’t be standing in the barn but would be in front of her demanding to be heard, demanding to be a part of his child’s life. But would he ask her to marry him? A Bree barmaid? Such marriages were frowned upon in his community, comments would be flung in their direction about how he’d weakened the bloodline, Poppi would be shunned by all but a few. He’d watched Mallor and Bregwyn deal with such prejudice for years, ever since his brother brought his new bride back from the fields of Rohan. It was part of the reason Mallor had stopped being a Ranger.

But it wasn’t his child, it was Haldon’s and so Haldon would have to be the one to offer to marry her. And if marriage wasn’t an option, then … what then?

“Is it yours?” Bregon repeated, grabbing his axe, advancing towards the Ranger. “What would she say if I asked her?”

Tarkil sighed, “I do not want to have to fight you, Bregon. The child isn’t mine though she will claim it is. There are some things I cannot tell you at this point, Bregon. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I must ask you to trust me for a while longer.”

“I trust _her_ more than I do you, Ranger! You’ve come to my house and upset my wife’s sister, and now you accuse her of bedding not just you but other men besides and say _she’ll_ lie about it?” Bregon’s face grew florid as he spoke. “No! You’ll march right back into that house and do the right thing by her. You’ll ask her to marry you if I have to hold this axe to your throat!”

“It’s not that she’ll lie,” Tarkil turned to face Bregon once more, keeping his hands loose at his side, “It’s very confusing – she mistook another for me and now thinks it was me she lay with but it wasn’t. I was leagues away to the south.”

“She confused you for… _‘despite what you’ve done’_ is that you meant by that? That you’d found that she’d slept with someone else instead of you?” the axe dropped to rest on the floor as Bregon scratched his head, “well, you Rangers DO all look alike, especially with them cloaks you wear but I think you think too highly of yourself, our Poppi wouldn’t tumble so easy – I’ve seen her react to some of the fumbling farmboys around here.” Bregon chuckled, “I can think of a few who still can’t walk straight.” His chuckles died and the axe head waved in the air again though not threatening Tarkil anymore, “And that doesn’t answer the question as to who is the babe’s father. Do you know this Ranger who took her virtue? Will he do right by her?”

“I know him. And I shall see he does right by her if I have to hold my sword to his neck beside your axe.”

Bregon nodded, then leaned the axe against a post, “I’ll hold you to that then.” The farmer sat on a hay bale gesturing for Tarkil to do the same. “I think I’ll stay out here with you for a while. I’m sure there’s tears aplenty in that house right now and I can’t deal with a woman’s sobs.” Bregon pulled a pipe from his pocket and lit it, “Sarah hates me to smoke my pipe indoors, I have to come out there for this anyway. Never did understand her – I mean we make our living off the leaf, yet she bans our own crop from the house. Here, this is some of my own leaf, try it.”

Tarkil filled his pipe with the proffer weed, then lit it, “Hmm, some of the better Southlinch leaf that I’ve tried. Thanks, Bregon.”

“So how do you know she’s with child? I don’t think Sarah even knew, and I doubt Poppi’s father would have not said something. Hoo, that Ranger better hope he doesn’t run into Poppi’s father first, he’ll be changed from a man to a maid before he could take another step.”

_Right now I’d probably hold my brother down and offer my sword to help tame Haldon in such a manner!_ “Just little clues. Like the way she left the Pony –she wouldn’t have left so quickly unless she were with child? And then her not eating her meal tonight … that one of the signs.”

Bregon spluttered into his pipe, quickly brushing off the sparks that flew. “That’s it? That’s why you think she’s with child? Oh, Tarkil my friend, you may know how to defend yourself against a man with an axe, but you haven’t a clue when it comes to women, do you?”

~~

Poppi grabbed a mug from the table, throwing it to crash against the door,as it slammed shut behind Tarkil, then collapsed in tears on the bench. Bregon hurried across to grab his coat then slipped out to follow the Ranger, leaving the women alone.

"Poppi," Sarah crossed her arms "You didn't tell me you carried a babe. Ithink he's made a noble offer and you need to hold him to it."

"No, Sarah. I don't. We haven't... He's only angry because I won't...." Shefought back the tears.

"You've never lied to me before and I want the truth now," Sarah said  
firmly.

Poppi slowly shook her head, the tears starting again. Sarah sat down beside her to rub her back as they spoke. Poppi sat up; her hands trembled as she wiped her cheeks. "I've only told you the truth Sarah. You see now how dangerous he is. I told you how he enchanted me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Elf-magic like in the legends." She rubbed her wrist where he'd held her and her palm that'd pressed against his chest trying not to remember how her traitorous body had betrayed her when she’d fallen against him. "When..." she stammered, "when I touch him, my heart pounds and ... and I can't think clearly."

Sarah frowned. "Does he encourage you to drink?"

Poppi stared at her. "No. Oh no! He wouldn't do that." She took a deep  
breath at realizing she defended him. "No, Sarah," Poppi said quietly. "He  
doesn't need to. He only has to look at me and I can feel his touch. When he  
touches me..." She blushed. "He claims his people are from Numenor, that he  
battles fell beasts and keeps company with Elves."

Sarah smiled and shook her head, bringing a new threat of tears from Poppi.  
"But Poppi, what has he done to hurt you, why are you so frightened of him?  
Has he tried to force you?"

Poppi shook her head, refusing to meet her sister's eyes. Sarah frowned  
again. "Poppi," she started slowly. "A man's touch... He's very handsome,"  
she rushed out with a blush, "and a strong man. You mustn't think ill of him  
because he .... desires you, because..." Sarah swallowed hard, "because he  
knows how to please you." She took a deep breath. "He seems to care an  
awful lot about you in spite of ... in spite of what happened in the stables."  
Sarah waited. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"No," Poppi finally whispered. "I kissed him, and ... but... he said he would have me the next time." Her tears welled up again at Sarah's expression of surprise.

Sarah's expression firmed. "Which is why young ladies are expected to have a chaperone when they are courted by a grown man. But Poppi," she continued, "I think you should talk to him. At least, let him state his intentions ...unless you prefer one of these local boys Pop has been running off.”

Poppi looked at Sarah in shock, then burst into tears again. “You see..” she gasped between her tears, “you see what he has done to me? I’ll never be able to marry a farmer after the way he’s touched me.”

“Oh Poppi, hon, it’s called love.” Sarah shook her head, drawing her sister to rest her head on her shoulder, “You’ve fallen in love with him.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

“Apparently several of their men did not show up so they used the farmer and his wife to help load and transport the weed. We found them both several days later walking back towards the village. They did not know who to trust so whenever a Ranger or any wagon came by, they would hide. That is why it took us so long to find them.” Tarkil finished reciting his tale.

“Could the boy’s parents recognize the men that abducted them? Do they know where they were headed?” Angrim sighed as Tarkil shook his head.

“They headed south down the Greenway without stopping anywhere. Once the couple realized they had gone south of the Andrath pass, they grew afraid of what might be done to them, especially to the woman. They made their escape while it was still dark and the men guarding them in the wagon fell asleep. They said as far as they knew, the wagon continued on without stopping.”

“We cannot stop the wagons of weed that have been heading down the Greenway, as we cannot prove they have been stolen.” He shook his head and slapped his gloves in the palm of his hand. “Well, if that is all you have to report, go get yourself some lunch before you return to your patrol.”

Tarkil gave a small nod and started to leave when Angrim called out. “Oh, and Haldon is here, he should be off his watch by now. You should probably have a bit of time to talk with him before you need to leave.”

Tarkil stopped halfway through the doorway, turning his head only slightly to ask, “I thought he was up in Fornost, away from people -- what brings him here?”

“Because he is needed!” Angrim barked, “We are having to pull more and more rangers from the north and move them to the borders, why do you think he is here? I’m left with a handful to cover the whole area! And still Halbarad requests more people be pulled from this land! So for now Haldon guards the Greenway between your post and here -- now close that door behind you before you let all the heat out of this wretched shack!”

Anyone around the small clearing would have noticed Tarkil’s hands form into fists as he stalked over to the rough building the small contingent used as a kitchen and gathering spot in the winter. He threw the door wide and stood in the opening, allowing his eyes to adjust to the smoky darkness within, when he saw him.

“Tarkil! You made it! Angrim said you should be reporting in today. Come sit by --- Oooph” Haldon found himself torn from his seat and flung violently against the wall with Tarkil’s hands around his neck, throttling him.

“What did you do to her, you lecherous maggot! Why could you not keep your hands to yourself for once! Just ONCE!” Tarkil fought as two other rangers tried to pull the brothers apart. “Have you not seduced enough women without going after mine?” The other rangers finally managed to separate the pair, though Tarkil continued to struggle against the hands that held him away from the object of his malice.

“Who? Which one are you talking about?” Haldon coughed and spluttered as he tried to catch his breath, “You really need to do something about that temper of yours, brother! Now who are you talking about? Which girl?”

“Poppi!” Tarkil spat back. “The girl in Bree? Remember her? You rode into town and seduced her and then left her in tears? The girl you wrote me about -- that you knew she mistook you for me yet you went ahead and seduced her anyway! THAT girl!”

“Oh, right! I remember her,” Haldon grinned brightly, “She was a delicious little thing. Big eyes, curly hair, right? I hope you made it back there and straightened things out with her, because if you have not, next time I am in Bree I shall. She was most obliging.”

“Arrrgh,” Tarkil launched himself again at his grinning brother only to be firmly caught again and shoved face first into the wall, his arm pulled behind him as a familiar voice growled in his ear, “Tarkil, lad, stop this! You’ve got to learn some control.”

“Gethron?” Tarkil realized who held him restrained. “I did not know… Owww, enough! Let go -- I will not fight you.” A moment passed before Gethron released his hold on Tarkil who wheeled on Haldon. “I finally find someone I am interested in and the moment my back is turned you have seduced her by pretending to be me!” Gethron grabbed his arm again. Tarkil shook it off and started addressing the older ranger rather than his brother. “Let me go, I gave you my word I would not fight! He lay with Poppi, Gethron. He took her maidenhood! My own brother! I had been working so hard to get her to trust me and he has destroyed everything!”

“I did no such thing, little brother, though it was not for lack of trying. Believe me, she is such a sweet little dish, if I had had the opportunity I would have but there just was not time.” Haldon hadn’t lost his wide smile. “Why don’t you ask her next time you’re in Bree; she’ll tell you.”

“She is not in Bree anymore – she ran home because you scared her off! Her brother-in-law and sister made me visit her parents. Now I have to court her with a chaperone! Why could you not just leave well enough alone?”

Haldon bent over laughing hard, “Oh, little brother, that is priceless! For once it is not me an angry father is after! Now you see what I mean about the girls of this land? They are starved for a good strong man.”

“It is not funny! I had hoped we could set up some sort of arrangement if she had stayed in Bree, but you went and scared her off home and now I am trapped!” Tarkil railed.

“Oh, you poor uneducated soul, that is easy enough to deal with -- just ask Angrim to reassign you; that is what I always do – and soon they grow weary of waiting and you are free.” Haldon chuckled.

“You both are idiots,” Gethron growled. “You should know better than to treat women in such a way, Breelanders or Dúnedain.”

“I have to get back out to my post,” Haldon grinned wryly at his brother, “I will leave you to suffer one of Gethron’s tongue-lashings by yourself, little brother – I have heard all his lectures before. He is almost as bad as Angrim.”

 

 

“Trapped?” Gethron raised an eyebrow as they watched Haldon leave. “Is this the same ranger who so carefully stalked that girl? Yet now you claim she has trapped you? You know that is not true, boy, I do not think anyone could force you or any ranger to do anything they did not want to do.”

“I just thought –“

“You just thought you would have a little fun with her? You are more like your brother than you realize perhaps.” Gethron pulled out his pipe, pausing before he lit it, “No, I do not buy your protests. I watched you with her that week in Bree; she mesmerized you. You care for her more than you are willing to admit, otherwise you would not have come bursting in here attacking your own brother. It drove you wild to know another man touched her. If it were a casual liaison, knowing she slept with another man would not drive you so crazy. Are you in love with her? Are you thinking of marrying her?”

“That is what Mallor asked, too.” Tarkil plopped down onto the chair opposite Gethron. “But I cannot marry her, Gethron. She is a Breelander. You know how our people frown on such relationships. I saw it happen when Mallor brought home his wife. She is a Rohan woman he met delivering messages to that land’s king. You met her when you brought Haldon’s letter to their farm before the Yule. He would not say much but he left ranging. I think it was because of the comments people made, both to him and to her.”

“I know Mallor, Tarkil. We were serving at the same post when he decided to quit ranging. He did not leave because of the way our people treated them; he left because he could not stand being away from his family.” The pipe finally lit and Gethron spoke with it clenched in his teeth. “He could not bear the thought of his wife and children being left alone if anything happened to him. It was not our people that caused him to make that decision, but the life that he led. You know how long it can be before you get home sometimes. And I notice you did not answer my first question, son, only my second. You do love her, do you not? You are going to need to think about what you would be asking this girl of yours – she had better get used to being alone for long periods of time.”

“But Angrim says …”

“I know what Angrim says, and yes, there is some truth to your words. There are those among us, like Angrim, who believe it is wrong to marry outside of the Dúnedain; that it thins our blood and weakens our people. But if you love this girl – should it matter what other people think? Because if it does make a difference to you, then you had better not see her again. It would be downright cruel to lead a lass on like that only to walk away.”

& \- & \- & \- &

That conversation repeated itself in Tarkil’s head on the ride home. Is it fair to ask Poppi to put up with his long absences? He himself had told Sarah it had been 7 months between visits home. But that was my choice, so others could visit their kin; I volunteered to take their duty. I had opportunities to go home if I had wanted, I just turned them down.

He and Bregon had eventually gone back into the house the night of the storm to find Poppi drying her eyes and Sarah comforting her. Sarah took him aside asking why he thought Poppi carried a babe. When he told her as he had Bregon, she laughed aloud and patted his arm. She shook her head. “Calm yourself, Tarkil dear, my sister has assured me you are not about to become a father.” She spoke quietly to Poppi who nodded and reluctantly joined the rest of them by the fireplace. He hadn’t found out what Sarah said to her sister that evening, but slowly the frost between them melted. And he found himself once again unable to remove his gaze from her – entranced, but very aware of Sarah and Bregon’s presence.

Mallor said that I love her, and Gethron suggested it, too. Are they right? Do I? And while Angrim is correct too about keeping the Numenorean blood pure, it is possible to marry outside of our people – Mallor’s done it. Would my people accept her as my wife? Would hers accept me as her husband? And what about my family’s heritage, would I weaken it? There’s still Haldon to carry on our line. He groaned aloud at that thought.

& \- & \- & \- &

The next few days as he traveled to various corners of his patrol, checking in with the farmers, he noticed a few children who suddenly clung to their parents at his arrival. Were they frightened because of warnings their parents gave them about strangers, or were they frightened of him simply because he was a Ranger. Had they always hidden?

Whenever he visited Bree, he always sat in the corners, cloaked in the shadows, keeping away from the locals, and they had kept away from him. It had been in his training to stay detached from the people he guarded. He’d never thought much about it before, but what did the Breelanders think of the Dúnedain?

Poppi’s father, Henry, scowled at him when Bregon and Sarah escorted him to Poppi’s house to make the introductions so he could ask permission to court Poppi. Was it because he was a Ranger or simply because Tarkil was a man coming to court his daughter. Would any Dúnedain father act any differently? Certainly Titheniel’s father hadn’t been pleased to see him come calling for his daughter during that ill-fated courtship.

& \- & \- & \- &

“That didn’t go well,” Tarkil groused to himself. “Perhaps Haldon is right, Nálo, perhaps I should just ask to be transferred.” But even to him, his words sounded hollow.

The afternoon’s visit with Poppi had been particularly tense to the Ranger: from the acerbic comments Henry muttered his way, to the excessive fussing of Poppi’s mother. Tarkil felt unnerved in that house each time he went to see Poppi. He could only hope neither Poppi, Bregon nor Sarah breathed a word to her parents about what had happened in the stables. He certainly didn’t want to have to explain that to her parents. He’d never told Poppi that it had been his brother not he, figuring he’d take the lumps. After all, he reasoned, he’d been after the same thing on their picnic.

But to be chaperoned! Having Poppi in the same room and unable to touch her, having every movement he made scrutinized, being aware that every glance in her direction caused Henry to ‘hrumph’ annoyed Tarkil beyond endurance.

 

 

He stopped at the small general store in Southlinch to buy some supplies, and after he tied Nálo securely to the hitching post, he held the shop door open for a woman carrying a small child to leave. The other people in the store stopped talking briefly and stared as he entered. Tarkil picked up the supplies he needed while he listened to the locals discussing the southerners who flooded their land of late. He paid for his purchases and left, mindful that the eyes of the locals never left him the whole time he’d been in their presence.

Further down the road, he passed the woman who had left the store as he entered. She struggled carrying her packages and the small child who now whined in her arms so he turned Nálo and dismounted.

She appeared nervous at his approach. “I do not mean to harm you, good lady. You look heavily laden; may I offer you some help in carrying your packages?”

She ducked her head, “I can manage. I’ve not far to go - just up the road here.”

“You’re from the south I’m guessing? Dunland perhaps?” Tarkil continued to walk with her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some help?”

“I’m sure,” she shifted the child in her arms who pulled her cloak aside briefly. A small locket drew his gaze, for he recognized it as one Ruby Greenbanks wore the last time he’d seen her. “That is a pretty necklace you have, mistress.”

“My husband gave it to me,” she fingered it as she looked at him warily, “now leave me alone. It will not be good if my husband sees me in the company of a strange man.”

He nodded his head and slowed his pace allowing her to proceed along the road ahead of him. He made a show of stopping to light his pipe as he watched her turn along a narrow path between two fields. As the distance between them grew, he slowly led Nálo down the same path, following her, hoping she could lead him to the miscreants who stole the locket and murdered its owner.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

The door of the dilapidated farmhouse flew open, spilling light from the doorway across the fallow fields. A burly man stood within its frame, yelling, “I’m goin’ out!”

A woman’s voice asked a question of him, and he snarled his reply “When I’m good and ready. Now shut up, woman!” The southerner slammed the door slammed and spat, “Always nagging me, bring her little trinkets and still she nags.” He grumbled as he trudged down the small path towards the Greenway, not seeing a shadow slip slowly behind him.

Tarkil stayed in the shadows of the hedges lining the fields. He had repeated the pattern for four nights now, since he had first discovered the location of the abandoned farmhouse the family squatted in. Each night the man left at dusk, heading across the Greenway to meet with others in a crumbling barn a few miles over the downs.

A half dozen men gathered there each night, drinking and gambling the first night he guessed from their raucous laughter, not leaving the shelter of the barn. He’d scouted the area during the gloam of dawn when he could hear the snores of those that remained. Still he returned each night, hoping they might lead him to the killers of Lilly’s family.

Yet tonight the southerner stopped at the Greenway, waiting, not heading across the downs to the barn. Eventually Tarkil heard hoof beats in the distance then the creaking of a wagon that stopped as it drew nigh to the man. “You’re late.”

“Cursed horse threw a shoe, so I had to steal us another one. We’ll make up the time and the others should be there already.”

The wagon creaked again as the man’s weight settled upon it; the harness jingled as the horse trotted along the Greenway towards Southlinch. Tarkil waited till he felt no one would notice him then sprinted to where Nálo stood tethered in a nearby spinney.

“Tarkil,” he heard a hoarse whisper calling. He spun around to see two dark shadows form into Rangers on horseback and he recognized Haldon and Gethron.

“I have to follow that wagon, I think it is the same men who have been stealing the pipe weed.” Tarkil untied Nálo and jumped onto his horse, guiding him to stand beside the other two, ignoring his brother for the moment. “What are you doing this way, Gethron? I thought your patrol was far to the south.”

“We’ve been following that wagon too. I have had reports of horses being stolen from my patrol lately and tonight they hit near where I happened to be; I found the farmer trying to chase after them so I followed the tracks, and ran into your brother here. We figured that anyone who stole a horse and moved a wagon at night was up to no good. You need help?” Gethron grinned in anticipation.

“I am not going to turn it down if you’re offering - three swords are better than one.” Tarkil grinned back so they kept to the shadows along the verge of the Greenway, leaving a distance between themselves and their quarry.

 

 

“What is the matter?” Haldon noticed his brother stiffen when the wagon slowed and turned.

“This is the Andrath road -- there are only two farms down that road that grow weed -- Poppi’s brother-in-law’s farm and her family’s!” Tarkil suddenly realized that if only two men were on the wagon, the others might already be at their destination. “Come on, we might be too late.” He urged Nálo into a canter, closing the distance between himself and the wagon; the two other Rangers following close behind.

“What is the plan, lad?” Gethron asked. “Catch up to the wagon and take them, then head for the farms?”

“I figure that is probably best, rather than letting them gather; better to keep the two groups apart.” Tarkil pulled his bow from his back and strung an arrow, holding both loosely, waiting to draw within range.

The men on the wagon realized they were being chased and urged the horse to go faster. The wagon bumped down the hill, then careened around the corner as the rangers drew closer, bows in hand. Three arrows shot through the air.

One of the men on the wagon took two of the arrows and tumbled off the wagon, falling heavily onto the ground, Haldon pulled up his horse, yelling, “Keep going, I have him.”

The two rangers thundered by the fallen men, arrows quickly replaced in their bows. The remaining man, an arrow embedded in his shoulder, urged the horse on still faster round the tight curve. Tarkil loosed his arrow just as the wagon clipped a tree, throwing the man free. He reined in Nálo, Gethron quickly turned his horse to stand over the man while the horse harnessed to the wagon panicked and ran through the woods, the wagon disintegrating at each tree it hit.

“Which farm are you going to?” Tarkil grabbed the man’s shirtfront as he bent over him, “Which one?”

“Hurts… I think I’ve broken something. Help me,” he choked out.

Tarkil threw him back down, “Help you? Like you helped the Greenbanks?”

Haldon came up, Tarkil threw him a glance to see him shaking his head, “No help for the other one, he is gone.”

“Which farm and how many?” The man didn’t reply. “How many are there already?” Tarkil yelled as he grabbed the man. But the man’s eyes rolled into his head as he went limp. Tarkil threw him down in disgust and got back on Nálo, “Haldon, bind him and join us when you can! But be quick about it!” He and Gethron turned their horses and continued down the road as fast as they dared in the dark of the night.

As they approached Bregon’s and Sarah’s small farm house, Tarkil pulled up on the reins to slow Nálo down, gesturing for Gethron to do the same. The house stood dark, the area quiet. “It does not look like they are here, at least not yet, perhaps they are at the next farm,” Gethron surmised.

“That is Poppi’s family,” Tarkil’s blood chilled to think what they might be enduring.

“How far is it?”

“Just around the next bend.” Tarkil ran onto the porch of the dark farmhouse and pounded on the door. “Bregon! We need your help! Bregon!”

A few moments later, the young farmer threw open the door and stared in amazement at the two Rangers who quickly explained the situation. He ran back and hurriedly dressed, returning with his axe in hand.

They stopped their horses as they rounded the bend bringing the house into view. “No lights in the house, but look at the barn. Looks like there’s a fire – a torch, do you think?”

“More a torch than a lantern from the flicker,” Gethron agreed. “How many do you reckon? Could you tell at the last two farms that you scouted?”

“Possibly six or more.” Tarkil’s frowned, “They hit the last house during the snowstorm and a lot of the tracks were muddied by the snowmelt so I could not tell.”

They left their horses and crept as close as they could, approaching the far side of the house. They decided to split up, one heading around each side, Gethron and Bregon slipped away in the darkness of the back of the house while Tarkil headed around the front. He froze when he heard a sound from inside – a slap and a cry. “Stupid women! Thought you could run away from us, did you?”

Tarkil crept up the steps, listening; the voices came from the back of the house – the kitchen? Silent as a shadow, he slid down the hall towards the voices, hearing the sound of a struggle.

“Just take the weed and leave us alone!” Tarkil heard defiance in Poppi’s voice and took a grim pride in her resolve. Hang on, my love, I am almost there.

“Put that down!” A series of heavy thumps and curses followed the hoarse command.

The door stood slightly ajar; he pushed it open wider to spy Poppi and her mother, armed with a frying pan and rolling pin, beating the intruder. The burly man threw up an arm to protect himself then grabbed Poppi’s mother by her neck, “You’re going to regret doing that!” he snarled. She dropped the pan to grab his arms, desperately trying to free herself as Poppi continued to beat him with the rolling pin. The man sagged when Tarkil’s knife buried itself deep in his back.

The Ranger strode into the room, quickly bending down over the man to ensure he could do no more harm as Poppi threw her arms about him nearly knocking him over.

“Tarkil! They’ve taken Pop – he’s out in the barn. You have to help him!”

He pulled his knife from the body and wiped it clean on the man’s trousers. “Gethron and Bregon are headed to the barn now. That frying pan will come in as a handy weapon, but do you have any good strong knives? I do not want to leave you here alone unprotected.”

Poppi’s mother opened a draw and pulled out a wicked carving knife and handed another blade to Poppi. “You go help Henry,” she sternly bade the ranger. “We’ll be able to look after ourselves here, don’t worry.”

Tarkil stopped as he heard footsteps coming downstairs. “Hey, Burl, there’s not much to take upstairs, let’s just take the women and have our fun here before the others want their t---” The man’s eyes went wide to see the door to the kitchen swing open and a Ranger come charging down the hall. He turned tail and ran out the front door, Tarkil hot in pursuit shouting to Poppi and her mother “Lock the doors – bar them with chairs until you hear Gethron or myself at the door.”

The man ran across the lawn towards the barn yelling “Ranger!” Tarkil saw Gethron and Bregon run into the barn meeting the thieves as they turned to help their companion. Tarkil caught up to the man from the house and tackled him.

One of the men pulled his own sword and swung at Gethron, the other threw himself at Bregon, preventing the young farmer from swinging his axe. A third man paused in indecision at seeing the sword fight and the two men wrestling on the ground. He ran over and grabbed the dropped axe then sprinted for the house. Bregon swung wildly, finally connecting with his opponent’s jaw and levered him off so he regained his feet. His foe rolled to stand and the two men attacked each other once more, grappling and pounding each other in turn.

~ ~ ~

“Mum! Are you all right?” Poppi anxiously asked her mother as they shoved a chair underneath the door handle of the front hall. “When I saw him with his hands around your neck, I thought ….”

“I’m all right, Poppi, he just winded me. I’m glad that lad of yours arrived when he did. Might be useful to have a Ranger around these days. Don’t you worry about me.” They went back to the kitchen where Poppi’s mother sat on a chair while she caught her breath. “You keep an eye out that window and make sure none of them thieves try to make a dash for it back here.”

“I can’t see much, Mum it’s so dark!” Poppi stood peering out the window, “I think Bregon’s fighting with one of them, and the older Ranger is too, but I can’t see Tarkil or Pop!”

~ ~ ~

Tarkil wrestled the burly southerner, struggling to keep the knife in the man’s arm from slicing into him, finally getting hold of the man’s wrist to slam it against the ground till the knife fell free of the man’s grasp. The man twisted and pushed Tarkil, kicking out at the Ranger who rolled out of the way, and quickly unsheathed his sword and ended the match. With a quick check to ensure the man’s death, Tarkil dashed into the barn as he saw Henry grappling with a man holding a torch to the hay bales.  
~ ~

“Mum! There’s one coming this way – he’s headed towards the front door and he’s got Bregon’s axe! Quick, we have to get out of here!” Poppi grabbed her mother’s arm, then pulled the chair from the back door and threw the bolt. “Come on, I just saw Tarkil out back.” As the front door splintered, the two women ran from the back door heading towards the tall Ranger running by. “Tarkil – there’s another one in the house!”

Haldon grabbed Poppi and swung her around behind him, ensured her mother was also safely out of harms’ way then drew his sword and met the robber who barrelled through the back door.

~ ~

Gethron despatched his man to see Bregon wrestling with his opponent still. He ran over to shove his belt knife up under the man’s ribs and pulled the body away from Bregon who turned to fight his new opponent. The young farmer stopped short, grinning, “Sorry, thought you were one of them thieves. Thanks for the hand, but I could have taken him out myself. Where’s Tarkil?”

The man grappling with Henry saw Tarkil running towards him, sword in hand. He grabbed the farmer and tried to throw him at the Ranger, but Henry stumbled; Tarkil jumped over Poppi’s father as he rolled out of the way. The thief drew his own blade, parrying the Ranger’s assault as Tarkil advanced.

Gethron and Bregon hurried into the barn to find Tarkil finishing off the last man. Bregon pulled Henry to his feet. Both men ran to the well and grabbed buckets of water, returning to throw them on the torch where it had fallen on the floor lighting a nearby hay bale.

“Pop, are you all right?” Bregon finally managed to ask his father-in-law once the last of the flames were extinguished.

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks to Tarkil here,” Henry gruffly admitted, then worriedly asked, “What about Ma and Poppi? There were a couple men in there with the women.”

Tarkil straightened from checking the body of the bandit, “I got one in the house, and the other is out in the yard. I have armed Poppi and your wife, Henry, and told them to bar the doors.”

“But another of those fellows grabbed my axe and headed to the house,” Bregon realized. “I’m not sure if they’re safe anymore.” The four men dashed out of the barn heading for the house.

 

 

 

“There you go, Poppi my dear, you are safe now.” Haldon resheathed his sword once he’d cleaned it after felling the last thief. She threw her arms about him, sagging against him in her relief. He gathered her in his arms, pulling her close and firmly kissed her.

 

 

Tarkil slowed his pace as he saw Haldon deal with the latest threat, knowing Poppi and her mother were now safe, then watched in disgust as his brother embraced Poppi. His disgust turned to horror as she wrapped her arms around Haldon’s neck to reach up, returning the kiss, her unrestrained breasts straining against her thin shift. Tarkil gasped as one of Haldon’s hands roamed freely down her back and over her billowing nightgown to settle on her gentle curves, pulling her harder against him.

Tarkil started to run towards them once more but Gethron grabbed his arm, “Just wait, son, she will realize it soon enough.” Gethron chuckled when he saw Poppi pull back and slap Haldon soundly. “See, I told you!”

Haldon rubbed his cheek and grinned, “Whatever is wrong, my dear, you were not so shy in the stables.”

Tarkil glared at Haldon as he removed his cloak and placed it around Poppi’s shoulders then put a possessive arm around her waist as she stared at them both. “That is my brother Haldon – I believe you have already met,” he raised an eyebrow at her to double over as Poppi pounded a fist into his stomach. “What did I do?” he gasped.

“You! Both of you! You played me for a fool!” her eyes narrowed in anger. “You played me between you,” she whispered the accusation, disbelief in her eyes. “Is this a game the noble rangers play,” she asked bitterly. She stared hard at Haldon, ignoring Tarkil’s protests.

Haldon shook his head. “No, Poppi dearest, it was no game. We did not realize until...” he paused and glanced at Henry. “I would never have made that promise Poppi,” he said quietly.

Poppi shifted uncomfortably and looked down to avoid Haldon's sudden wide  
grin.

“Wait a minute – you thought Haldon was me? So when you finally agreed to walk with me? Who did you think you were accepting?” Horror crept into the edge of Tarkil’s thoughts – surely she hadn’t thought it was Haldon courting her all this time!

“You! Him! I don’t know! I thought you were the same man!” She stared at them standing together and realized, even in the moonlight, they were different: Haldon, a tad shorter, Tarkil broader across his shoulders. “Sometimes you’d reach for me with this bright smile and a gleam in your eye –and other times you’d be solemn and quiet. I thought … You look so … “ Poppi shook her head and took another step back.

"Oh no, Poppi, do not go," Tarkil reached for her, but froze as she stiffened at the familiar words. “Poppi?”

Then she saw Haldon’s bright grin. “THAT gleam and that SMILE!” she pointed at Haldon. “Oh!” She stomped back into the house, slamming the door.

Tarkil glared at his brother, “Oh, wipe that smirk off your face!” He strode to the back door calling out to her, “Poppi! We had no such plans; I had no idea that Haldon was asking you as well. We rarely see each other as it is.” He found her in the parlour, slumped in a chair, her head in her hands. “Poppi,” he said quietly as he went to kneel beside her. “Haldon and I had not seen each other in months. I had no idea he was asking you out or that you would not be able to tell the difference between us. We were not playing games with you. I promise.”

“The stables” Poppi kept her gaze to the ground. “That was Haldon. You thought... you thought he didn’t honor your promise,” she finally said. She gasped as her head flew up to stare at him. “You knew about that! That’s why you thought I was … I was ‘in that condition’ … And I thought you meant … that I hadn’t, and you thought I had – with your brother! You KNEW and you never said a word to me all this time! You let me think it was you! You were playing games with me!”

“No, Poppi!” Tarkil sighed and took her hand, holding it firmly as she tried to wrench it away. “Listen to me, please. I would have told you at Sarah and Bregon’s but you would not speak with me alone and since then we have always had a chaperone. I figured it would be more embarrassing for you to find out that it was not me in the stables. I was not trying to play any games, nor was either of us trying to hurt you. Haldon did not know I had asked you to wait for me, to walk with me again when he came that night. He left me a letter after he met you in the stables but he did not say exactly what happened, only that you had mistaken him for me. I … assumed where I should not have and made that accusation against you about … your condition – because I was jealous. I could not stand the thought of anyone else touching you.” He reached up and tucked her curls behind her ear, “And once I saw you again the night of the storm, it did not matter to me any more. I just wanted to be with you. Only you. That is why I asked your parents’ permission to court you.”

“I thought that was because Bregon forced you down here,” she sniffled.

“Nay, my love,” Tarkil smiled as he shook his head, “I do not think Bregon would have been very successful if I had not wanted to come. He is a strong farmer and handy with an axe, but I am a Ranger and I am very good with my sword. Besides, Bregon’s smart and I think he knew I did not need forcing, just needed a nudge perhaps.”

“So you wanted to court me? You’re not doing it because you feel obligated?” Poppi lifted her eyes to look at him finally. “Because Bregon and Pop forced you?”

“I am here because I choose to be.” He grew solemn, and traced a finger down the side of her jaw, “When I saw you tonight– with that murderer in the kitchen – I have never felt anything like that in my life. The thought that someone might hurt you or that I might lose you -- I could not bear such thoughts.”

She slowly reached to him, placing her palm against his cheek. Tarkil rose as soon as she touched him and lifted her in his arms then sat in her place, settling her in his lap, his cloak draping over them. He wrapped his arms around her and touched his lips to her hair then Poppi lifted her face to offer her lips to his. He brushed his lips across hers, testing. Feeling her heart race beneath his hand, his lips touched her again, demanding more. She pulled away finally, breathless, resting her head against his shoulder, “I thought you were coming to see me because you felt you had to,” she admitted shyly.

He smiled as he shook his head, “I came to see you because I love you, Poppi.” And he realized he did: he knew he could want for nothing more than her love.

He bent his head over her once again, firmly kissing her, as she eagerly leaned into him, yielding to him. She slipped a hand around his shoulder, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, her other hand traced light circles across his chest. She equaled his passion, tasting, teasing, seeking him in return. Her breath caressed his cheek sending a spiral of warmth through him; he slid a hand beneath the cover of the cloak to boldly wander over her. Only the thin cloth of her nightgown came between them as she quietly moaned and arched up into the warmth of his hand.

“Harrumph,” they heard from the door, “Go get dressed, girl, your mother needs a hand cleaning up the kitchen.”

Poppi scrambled to her feet, blushing, as she rushed past her father while Tarkil slowly stood to face Henry’s glower. Once his daughter was out of earshot, Henry came into the room, placing a lantern on the table, and folded his arms across his chest, “We appreciate the help you gave us tonight but it does not allow you to take such liberties with our daughter.”

“Of course, Mr. Rushlight, please forgive me.” Tarkil dipped his head to the farmer. “I meant no disrespect to you or your daughter.”

“Just what are your intentions towards her, Tarkil? You asked if you could court her but to what end?” The farmer cut right to the heart of the matter giving Tarkil no quarter.

They talked about the Ranger’s intentions and his plans for the future; Henry asked pointed questions about how Rangers supported their families, where they lived, and Tarkil’s age. Poppi returned to find the room quiet, Tarkil staring out the window watching the sunrise as her father sat in his chair, pulling on his pipe.

“Pop, Mum needs some help with the stove – the damper’s sticking again.” Poppi watched her father give a glance at the Ranger as he passed by her.

“Tarkil, was Pop angry with you?” Poppi laced an arm through Tarkil’s once her father left the room. “Can you still court me?”

“He is worried about you, Poppi, as any father should be. He is afraid that I may take advantage of you – and rightly so I suppose after some of the things that were said in front of him this morning and then …” he gestured to where they had sat together earlier, “But yes, I can still court you.” He tipped his head to the window, “Bregon went to get Sarah from the looks of it.”

Poppi nodded, distracted by his solemn manner. “He left a little while ago after they got the … bodies … out to the barn. And your friend Gethron’s gone too; he said he needed to report in. I guess you were talking with Pop when they left.”

Tarkil nodded as Sarah swept into the front hall anxiously calling to her parents who hurried from the kitchen followed by Haldon who casually leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

“I was all alone there, and I had no idea what was going on, if any of you were hurt or worse! Tarkil – I’m so glad you were here, thank you so much.” She handed Calder over to her mother then glided over to Haldon and reached up to kiss him, then pulled back, “Oh dear! You’re not Tarkil.”

“No, it’s not Tarkil, that’s his brother Haldon,” Poppi smugly informed her from the parlour where she still held Tarkil’s arm.

Sarah tilted her head to the side as she looked at Haldon and glanced over at Tarkil, “I guess because it’s still dark in here that you look rather similar though I don’t think I’d get you mixed up in the daylight.”

Tarkil bowed to Sarah, a small smile finally tugging the edges of his lips, “THANK you, Sarah. But there are those who do seem to have trouble telling us apart.” Poppi narrowed her eyes at him, but she smiled, hugging his arm close, and laughed as she saw Haldon boldly wink in her direction.

Henry settled down in his chair and lit his pipe, scowling as the smoke curled about his head. "Why don't I want to hear the rest of this story?"

Tarkil frowned and pulled Poppi close. "I have to report in once we’ve delivered the wounded man to the Mayor. And I want to let Lily know that we caught the people who killed her parents." Tarkil bent to kiss Poppi good-bye as Henry folded his arms and glared. "But I will be back soon. I will drop in on your family each day I am in the area to make sure you are still safe."

 

 

 

 

[TBC]


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMC Ranger of the north patrols the Bree area during the Nazgul attack in 3018, while trying to attract the attention of a Bree girl.

“She doesn’t take to strangers much these days, especially men,” warned Lilly’s grandmother. “She’ll probably run away as soon as she sees you.”

Tarkil nodded slowly, “I can understand why. Though she may remember me – I met them a few times before the fire.”

“You say you got them? The men that murdered my daughter and my granddaughter?” She squinted up at him against the bright sunlight as they stood on the lawn in front of her house.

“Yes, ma’am, only one survived and we handed him over to the mayor of Southlinch for proper punishment according to Bree law, not that he could run very far, he broke a leg and an arm.” Tarkil explained, “He said a lot of them were forced into thievery by the other fellows, said they threatened his wife. I am not sure I believe that. But that is not for me to judge.”

“Too many southerners coming this way, and they all speak of trouble to follow,” she looked up at the Ranger, “I can’t say I ever paid much attention to you Rangers but it’s nice to know you were there for Lilly.” She paused and then pursed her lips, “Are you sure you got the thugs that killed my daughter? There has been an awful lot of trouble around – even killings up in Bree itself from what I hear.”

He nodded, “I am sure it was them, Mrs. Heathertoes.” He fished in his pocket, removing a small silver locket that glinted in the sunlight as they stood on the lawn in front of Lilly’s new home. “The thief’s wife returned it when she found out he had stolen it – said she did not know what he had done to get it.”

She gasped, “Ruby’s locket! Reg gave that to her on their wedding day. I thought it had been lost in the fire.”

A young woman came to the door of the house, the small girl peeked out from behind her, clutching her skirts.

“Come here, Lilly,” Mrs. Heathertoes urged her granddaughter, “This is the Ranger that saved you from the fire. Midge, bring her closer. This poor man has come all this way to see her.”

Midge stepped a few paces further making it off the small porch, but Lilly still clung behind, fearful. Tarkil squatted down a few feet away. “Lilly? Do you remember me? I had dinner with you and your family back in the spring.” She didn’t speak but nodded her head once as she clutched Midge’s skirts tighter. “I made a promise to you the night of the fire. I promised I would find the men that hurt you and your family. I wanted to let you know, I found them and they will not hurt anyone ever again.” There was still no reaction, so he held up the locket, “I brought something for you, I thought you’ would like to keep it safe.” Her eyes went wide, “Momma’s!” The child thrust out a small hand and grabbed the locket, clutching it to her chest, then ran back into the house crying.

“I did not mean to upset her, Mrs. Heathertoes. I thought she should have it. I know not much survived the fire that night.” Tarkil worried as he stood up.

“No, she’ll be all right. You’re right, it’s the only thing she has of her parents now. She still has nightmares of that fire and doesn’t remember much else anymore.” She sighed, “It’s probably better that way, I suppose.”

They stood on the lawn chatting for a few minutes more before Tarkil bid her farewell. He led Nálo down the lane, then mounted his horse and headed for the Greenway. A few miles north, he ran into Gethron and Huznat. “Where are you fellows off to? I thought you were still guarding to the south?”

Gethron turned in his saddle, “We are being pulled from those posts. News has come from Rivendell. They need Rangers to head south to Gondor – Halbarad is gathering all that are available and the rest of us are being reassigned. They are pulling everyone from around the Shire and Bree.”

Tarkil shook his head, “And there is still so much trouble here -- we caught that one group yet we know there have been thefts and problems since. What will these people do to protect themselves? They have relied on us for so long, they forget we are even here.”

“It cannot be helped, war is brewing to the South. And looks like it is headed our way. Angrim will not be coming up for a few days yet, there are still a few Rangers he needs to contact so he asked me to give the orders to you.” Gethron filled in Tarkil with all the latest details. “You will have to come with us to gather your gear, but Halbarad will probably allow you to come back to say good-bye to that girl of yours.”

~ ~ ~

The two brothers cantered down the Greenway a few weeks later and as they left the road to head down the old Andrath Road, Haldon asked, “Do you think she will wait for you?”

“I hope so, Hal,” Tarkil worried. “It is strange, when I first met her, I thought she was sweet and pretty, but I never imagined I would fall in love with her the way I have.”

“Angrim had a fit of rage when he heard about it, you know.” Haldon chuckled, “That was right around Yule when you checked in and we had our little, um, disagreement. You know how he is about Dúnedain marrying outside of our kind and ‘thinning the blood.’ “

“I have fallen in love with her.” His brow furrowed, “And even when I do ask her to marry me, I am not sure Henry will ever allow it. I do not think he was too pleased to hear I would be taking Poppi back to the Angle if we married.” Tarkil suddenly grinned wryly at his brother, “But if we _do_ marry, and given that Mallor married a Rohan woman, you realize that means it shall be up to you to continue our line?”

“I shall do my best, little brother, but there are so many beauties to sample that my choice is difficult. Still I envy you – Poppi is quite a girl, she will make you a good strong wife.” Haldon’s grin faded. “Yes, I envy you to have that love with her. What if you do not return from defending the south? How long will she wait?”

Tarkil glanced sharply at his brother, “What? Are you wanting to have another go at her?” He held up his hand, “I know, it was a poor attempt at humour.” He didn’t want to consider what could happen in the south that would cause him not to return. “But those are strong words coming from someone with your record. For all the times you say you have been in love, what do you know about marriage?”

“Oh, I shall marry, little brother, never fear. I will settle down with a proper Dúnedain woman and we will raise a houseful of sons.” Haldon assured him. “I just wish you had not volunteered to take Dirghel’s place on this journey. You will probably be safer guarding the High Pass than you will be heading to Gondor.”

“Let us not get into that again, Hal. And you deserve to have a houseful of _daughters_ – to pay you back for all those anxious fathers who had to watch you come to their door.” Tarkil spurred Nálo on to a canter, calling over his shoulder to his brother, “Come on, let us not dally, the less time on the road, the more time I have with Poppi.”

~ ~ ~

“Tarkil!” Poppi ran down the porch stairs as he rode down their lane. “I thought you would be back last week – what took you so long? I was getting so worried.” The ranger dismounted, lifting her in his arms as he embraced her to steal a quick kiss from her before her parents could cluck their disapproval.

“Hello, Haldon,” she greeted Tarkil’s brother as he reined in his horse beside them.

“Poppi my dear,” Haldon greeted her politely but stayed on his horse.

She put an arm around Tarkil and leaned close once more for another quick kiss before she pulled away. “Look at you, you’ve got greaves on, and – is this mail?” Her brow furrowed. “And there’s a helmet on your pack! Tarkil? Have you been in a battle?”

“We have to talk, Poppi,” he told her gently. He led her away from his brother, seeking privacy while still allowing her parents an unrestricted view, conscious of their protective stares as they stood on the porch watching him with their daughter. “I have to go away for a while. We head south to Rohan and Gondor; I am not sure when I will be back.”

“You mean it might be more than a few weeks, maybe a couple of months? But you’ll be back by my birthday, won’t you? You’ll be back by then, surely!” her voice rose in anxiety.

He shook his head, “War is breaking out in the south, and we go to protect our captain and help him regain his throne.” He saw the confusion on her face. “I cannot tell you how long it will take, but Poppi, would you … would you wait for me?” He took a deep breath as he caressed her hair, “I love you, Poppi Rushlight. I would like to know that you are here, waiting for me.” He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close, unable to bear the look on her face.

“But why must _you_ go?” her words were muffled in his chest.

“Because I am needed. The Captain needs all the men he can get to help him win this war.” He continued stroking her hair, revelling in the soft scent that wafted up and filled his senses.

“Is Haldon going?” he could tell tears were starting.

“Yes, Haldon is going with me.”

“But I thought you said your mother wouldn’t let her sons serve the same post together?” She started to sob. “Why can’t he go and you stay here with me?”

“Aragorn needs us -- both of us – we have trained our whole lives and sworn to serve him, my love. And there are others with families already. I could not stay in good conscience knowing I had made another man take my place. I do not wish them to leave their children fatherless. I have seen too much of that already. But would you wait for me? Will you be here, will you see me when I return?” He closed his eyes as he bent his head over hers, kissing her hair, breathing in her sweet scent and felt the warmth of her against him, trying to gather it in his memory for the long days ahead.

She clung to him tighter, sobbing harder, “Of course, I’ll wait. I love you, too!”

Henry came closer, a scowl on his face, wondering what Tarkil said to upset his daughter. “What seems to be the problem here, lass?”

“He … has … to … leave! He’s going to … fight!” she wailed.

Tarkil looked over at Henry, “War is breaking out – the armies of Mordor are marching north. If we do not stop them, they will head up here and swarm over this land.”

Henry nodded, “It’s what you have to do, son. We’ll look after her, don’t you worry. When do you leave?”

“Today, sir. Halbarad – our commander -- gave me enough time to say good-bye to Poppi, but I must leave now.” Tarkil admitted, feeling Poppi stiffen against him.

Poppi pulled away and stared up at him with reddened eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Now? You can’t even stay for lunch? You’re just … going? Now?”  
  
He gently wiped the tears away with his thumb and nodded. “I am sorry, we must travel in haste and gather as many men as we can on our way. The others have already passed by. Haldon and I must catch up with them now -- I cannot stay any longer as much as I wish to.”

He saw a strange look come over her face as she straightened and swiped at her tears, “I love you, Tarkil Dúnadan. I will be here waiting for you when you return. I suppose I must get used to such things. After all, you’re a Ranger.”

Pride filled him at her determination – Haldon was right, she would make him a good wife. He smiled down at her, “Yes, my love, I am a Ranger and I protect this land. And its people.” _Including one sweet lass I love more than any other._

Henry put a hand out and grasped the Ranger’s hand in a firm grip, “Tarkil, you take care.” He turned away and took his wife inside the house, Tarkil smiled at the opportunity they gave him to say a proper farewell.

The tall ranger lightly brushed his fingers across the Bree-land girl’s forehead, then tangled them in the curls of the long hair behind her neck and pulled her close. “I love you, Poppi,” he whispered then pressed his lips against hers and tasted her deeply, wishing the kiss could last forever in his memory.


End file.
